


Wise and Fierce: The Royal Courtesans of the House of Acheron

by rev02a



Series: The Blessings of Béḃinn [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Alternative Universe - Courtesans, Alternative Universe - Kingdom, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), BAMF Crowley (Good Omens), Battle, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Fairy Tale Elements, Fairy Tale Retellings, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Aziraphale (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Other, Pregnancy, Protective Gabriel, Relationship Problems, Sequel, Sex, Sexual Harassment, They/Them Pronouns for Beelzebub (Good Omens), War, Workaholic Aziraphale, Worldbuilding, and by the nature of training courtesans, mentions of war-related violence to citizens, of citizens by pillaging soldiers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:35:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 56,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26567446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rev02a/pseuds/rev02a
Summary: Queen Michael is deposed and in the wind. Her attacks on and subversion in King Gabriel's lands still smart. In wake of the war, the royal brothers have troubles. Gabriel must collect trusted and loyal advisors to his side. Prince Aziraphale wants Michael dead, for the security of his brother's kingdom, but, mainly for Crowley's safety.Meanwhile, the consorts Beelze and Crowley try to find their feet in a new world where they're royalty, not just courtesans from the poor Southern District.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Beelzebub/Gabriel (Good Omens)
Series: The Blessings of Béḃinn [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1932250
Comments: 74
Kudos: 46





	1. To Eat Crow

**Author's Note:**

> OK, ladies and gentlemen, shall we see if the second part jumps onto the page as quickly as the first part did?
> 
> We are rewinding!!!!  
> This chapter backs up to immediately after the sea battle on the castle.

The battle goes complete tits over teakettle. Michael, the warrior queen, rips off the cloak with the emblem of Gabriel’s court embroidered on its shoulder. She is still in her armor. She whistles, like calling a dog, and her advisors, all present and all hiding in plain sight, fall into step with her. Her guards rip off their cloaks and drop them to the floor. Together, while cannonballs strike Gabriel’s castle, they march out into the street and abandon the lost battle.

Six kilometers outside of the capital, they seek shelter in a temple of the goddess of blankets and small, helpless things, Lofn. Michael tries not to read too much into their shelter for the night. They’re lucky, really, as Lofn believes in hosting travelers on real beds. Her advisors may sniff, but they’ve gotten soft pretending to be a part of Gabriel’s simpering court. She’s glad of a moment to herself, once closed in one of the rooms. She strips out of her armor and washes her face in the provided basin.

That was her last independent strike. There is nothing else for it, she thinks, in order to regain her kingdom, she will have to marry Death himself.

King Azrael’s lands border her own to the North and curve around like a lover to the West. Azrael has hinted over the years that reuniting their kingdoms would be welcome and all sins from her great-grandfather’s war for independence would be forgiven. She doesn’t want it, but she also cannot stand to have Gabriel ruling her homeland. At least this way, she can rule her people once again.

She settles down at the tiny table in the room and dips her quill into ink.

_Greetings, my friend, King Azrael,_

_I write to you as a deposed queen with only the trappings of war in her hand…_


	2. Needlepoint and Frayed Edges

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place 3 months after Chapter 1.

There are six months in mourning. The first week is spent only with one’s direct spouse and children quietly in one’s home. Over time, the world returns slowly. Friends bring food at the one month mark. At seven weeks, the family leaves a large offering for the god of the afterlife, Arawn. At three months, they may play music. At four months, mourners may begin to replace the purple attire with some other colored pieces. At six months, they clean their homes from top-to-bottom.

As the royal household, other expectations pile on them. For one, they are expected to embroider a new altar cloth for all seventy-one of the temples in the capital at the end of their mourning period. There are three months to go and twenty-one altar cloths still remain for Beelze and Crowley to embroider with Gabriel’s new crest.

If Crowley sees any more gold thread or cream satin, he will scream.His fingers ache and his hand will barely close.

Other people should be involved—Beelze’s handmaidens and such should be sewing too. Unfortunately, no one seems willing to jump into the positions besides Crowley. Oh, the court bows and pretends to pay respect to the prince consort, but they also spread gossip behind their back. Beelze takes it in stride, but with their pregnancy’s first term almost behind them, Crowley would feel better if they had additional people to help them.

Beelze gives a sigh and ties off the last stitch on their current alter cloth. They knot and snip the thread. Then they throw the needle across the room.

“Fuck,” they say with feeling.

Crowley has another two rows of stitches to add to this sword and then some flying bugs and he’ll be finished too. His eyes cross.Beelze stands and rubs their lower back. There, under their abaya, is the slight swell of the future heir to the throne. Crowley lets his sewing fall into his lap and watches his sibling move around and stretch.

“When will you tell the court?” he asks and rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands.

Beelz hums. “What? Oh, yeah, the sprog? Gabriel was thinking officially announcing it in three weeks. Should be safely rooted by then.”

“Béḃinn won’t let anything help to the little hellspawn,” Crowley states with a yawn. “Gods what time is it?”

Beelze looks out at the night beyond the balcony. The sea sweeps in. “High tide is coming in, it looks like.”

“So _very_ late,” Crowley decides and pins his needle where he can see it tomorrow. He stands and his back pops. It’s been without pain since one of his almost-really-dead meetings with the goddess Béḃinn. All the same, the fact that it cracks and pops annoys him.“I wonder where the King is?”

Beelze gives him a knowing look, “If you want to know where Aziraphale is, go find him.” They moved over to the plaited rope and tugs on it to ring for a servant. “I need food.”

Crowley stretches his arms over his head and then bends down to touch his toes. “I could do with a nibble.”

The door opens and a very sleepy Brian stands there. Beelze seems alarmed. “Brian, I didn’t mean to wake you. Go back to bed, honey.”

Brian yawns. “I’m with the King and the Prince. Can’t go to bed yet.”

“Nonsense,” Crowley decrees, “Off to bed with you. We’ll get our own snack.”

Brian’s eyes widen. “I was told to never let the Prince Consort get hungry since they’re having a baby. Adam says the baby will eat through the Prince’s tummy and—“

Crowley gives a surprised, but delighted laugh. “Actually not going to happen, no matter how grumpy Beelze gets. I’ll walk you down to the kitchens, grab them a snack, and get you into bed.”

“But the King—“

“And, I,” interrupts Beelze, “will put the King to bed while you do that. I’ll send the Prince to your chambers, little brother.“

Brian is relieved. “I can go to bed?” he asks, like a much smaller child.

“Sure thing, bud,” Crowley agrees and accompanies him down the hall with his hands tucked in his trouser pockets. “Go ahead; I don’t need an escort. I know the way.”

Brian seems hesitant. “What? Do you think I haven’t snuck snacks from the kitchen before? _Pshaw_ , I’m a master sneaker.” Crowley grins. “Get to bed, kid.”

Brian disappears below stairs and Crowley meanders into the kitchens. The fire is banked and the lanterns are extinguished. He stumbles a little and stubs his toe twice, but still finds some food that will soothe Beelze. He makes his way back to their rooms with his arms loaded with fruit, muffins, and cakes.

Some of the court is still lingering in the receiving room outside of the King’s chambers. Some of them are blissed out, clearly high. Others are drunkenly singing. Another trio in the corner is touching in ways that suggest they’ll be relocating to a bed shortly. Crowley ignores them all and enters Gabriel and Beelze’s rooms. Their sitting room is empty and the lanterns extinguished. He gives a look, including a raised eyebrow to the guard outside their chambers.

“Open the door, won’t you?” he asks, nodding to his snack haul. “The Prince Consort needs vittles.”

_Vittles_ , he rolls his eyes as he steps into the room. Aziraphale’s word choice is rubbing off on him. He drops the assorted goodies on the table in front of the fireplace. He’s alone, but his eye catches the altar on the mantle. He brushes a kiss to his fingertips, which he touches to his sigil as he bows.

“My lady,” he whispers. He waits there, bent in reverence. The door opens and he straightens.

The King enters with Beelze on his arm. Crowley gives a quick bow and looks over their shoulders for Aziraphale.

“I told you, you idiot, I’d send him to your chambers,” Beelze teases and stands on their tiptoes to press a kiss to the King’s cheek. He looks around at the pile of sewing and raises an eyebrow.

“Sweetheart,” he admires, gently, “you’ve both been working too much.” He takes Beelze’s hand in his and examines their fingertips. He frowns. “Take tomorrow off, both of you.”

Both of them start to protest, but Gabriel looks sternly at them both. He presses a kiss to Beelze’s fingertip. “You have a permanent needle callus. It looks like a trench.”

Beelze smiles, warm and lovingly. Gabriel locks eyes with them and kisses their finger again. Crowley sighs, grabs an apple and gives a sloppy bow.

“Good night, you two. Be careful how you play, that’s my niece or nephew in there.”

Beelze flips him the v and he slips out. He wonders if Aziraphale has actually made it to their chambers. He’s hesitant to go, if he’s honest. Since the six days of mourning, there has been a third person in their relationship. Michael is the ghost that haunts the prince. They rowed about it the first day of mourning, but Aziraphale promised to let it go.

He’s broken that promise a week later.

The castle is still with the late hour and Crowley’s footsteps echo off the empty courtyard. He eats his apple as he walks. His crunching sounds obscenely loud. He tosses the core into a planter and opens one of the double doors to their chamber. He finds the lamps lit in the library. Aziraphale is hunched over his desk, his quill flying across the parchment. Books are open all around him.Crowley enters the library, but the prince does not look up. He walks over to the fireplace and lifts the decanter. He selects two tumblers and pours a two fingers worth of whiskey for them each. Then he walks to Aziraphale’s side.

“Angel,” he begins and holds out the tumbler to his partner.

Aziraphale blinks, like he’s coming out of a trance and glances at the glass, then at Crowley in slow succession. He reaches up and pulls off his spectacles.

“Good morning, Crowley?” he asks, still confused by the tumbler of whiskey being offered to him.

“Nope, it’s a nightcap. Come sit with me.”

Aziraphale flaps at hand at him, as if shooing away a fly. “I wish I could, dear boy, but I’ve gotten intel about an alliance between—“

“I don’t care, angel,” Crowley says sharply. “I’ve been sewing for like seven hours today for your dead mother, whom, I’d like to remind you, detested me. The least, and I do mean, _the least_ , you could do for me is have a drink with me.”

He holds the tumbler out to Aziraphale again, who takes it achingly slow. “Thank you,” Crowley finally says.

Aziraphale just holds it and tries to glance back as his writing. If he’s aiming for discrete, then he misses by a mile. Angered, Crowley throws back his drink in one long swallow and drops his tumbler onto Aziraphale’s desk.

“Crowley!” the prince shouts, as the glass rolls across his desk and his documents.

“Come to bed, angel, punish me there,” Crowley suggests. If his tone is slightly pleading then so what of it?

Aziraphale sets his untouched drink down on a side table and cleans up Crowley’s errant glass. It’s dripped, just a tiny bit, on a letter. Aziraphale mops the drip up with his sleeve.

“Don’t you understand? There is _no time_ for this,” he seethes as he reorganizes his desk. “Michael has married Azrael and is marching—“

“Aziraphale,” Crowley interrupts, closing his eyes and rubbing his forehead, “just come to bed. You can deal with this in like three hours when the sun rises.”

“They’re marching, Crowley. There isn’t—“

“ _There is_!” he shouts with his hands tugging at his hair.

Aziraphale drops into his seat and resettles his glasses. “I am not going to argue with you about this. It is my duty to protect the kingdom. I am the King’s heir—“

Crowley has heard this before. He turns on his heel and leaves. He wrenches their bedroom door open and slams it behind him. His anger boils around him like a tangible thing. In the darkness, he marches out onto their bedroom’s balcony and storms over to the potted palms.

“You’re a waste of good soil! Yellowing and spiny. Worthless!” he snarls loudly, even though he’s unable to see what the palm looks like at all.

It doesn’t help, there are no words satisfactory enough. Instead, he turns to his potting bench and grabs a ceramic pot and hurls it at the wall. It explodes into terra-cotta shards that rain down around him. He grabs another pot and throws it just as hard.

“Fucking stupid,” he snarls and the third pot shatters against the castle wall. “Fucking stupid me for thinking things would change.”

“Master Crowley?” a small voice asks and the consort freezes.

“Adam?” he asks, surprised. “Why are you up? It’s nearly three in the morning.”

The boy is outlined by the single lamp that’s lit in their bedroom. He stands in the doorway in his pajamas.

“The prince just rang for me and asked me for tea. I saw your light. I thought maybe you’d want…” his voice drifts away.

Crowley rubs his face. “Adam, go to bed. I’ll make his tea.”

Adam shifts sleepily and Crowley walks to his side. He grips the boy’s shoulders and directs him to the servant’s door.

“Honestly, go to bed. No more answering bells. My orders. Good night.”

And then he shuts the door behind the child. He’s angry again, for a new reason. He grabs his iron teapot and fills it with water from the cistern. It might not be boiling, but it will have to do.

“…practically dawn and he’s waking kids…” he grumbles as he spoons tea into the pot. “…they’ll have to be up in time to make breakfast…” He snags a teacup and storms out into the living area.

“Aziraphale!” he shouts once he’s there. “Tea!”

He sets it on the table and spins on his heel angrily.

“Have him bring it in here,” the prince calls absently.

Crowley grinds his teeth. “I sent the child to bed as it is three in the blessed morning. If you want tea, come the fuck out here and pour it.”

This seems to shake the prince out of some daze. A moment later, he’s standing in the doorway to the library with his spectacles balanced on his nose. He looks all around and down at the teapot.

“My, is it that late?”

And Crowley explodes.

“Yes, for fuck’s sake, it is! And if you could get your head out of your arse for a second or two and look at the people you care about, you’d know that!” He yells and waves his hands.

“That’s uncalled for.” Aziraphale snaps, primly. “I am the King’s Secretary of War—“

“—So help me, if you launch into that list of titles and duties one more time I am going to print them out and stuff them down your fucking throat.”

Aziraphale’s eyes blaze. “How dare you.”

“You know what?” Crowley paces to their bedroom then spins back around and faces the prince. “You know what, you’re right. Only you’ve forgotten a title. You’re my _partner_ and you swore to me that you’d care for me. Only that title you seem to give far less respect or priority to.”

Aziraphale rips off his glasses and points them at Crowley. “Are you asking me to organize my roles so that you’re at the top? You know that my duty will never allow for that. I am loyal to my brother the King.”

“Are you also loyal to me?” Crowley growls.

“You courtesans get your feathers in a ruffle about such nonsense! Of course, I am!”

Crowley sags. “But I’m just an _oiran_ , eh?” He gives a self-deprecating laugh.

“You are putting words into my mouth,” Aziraphale argues, before grabbing the teacup and pouring tea with sharp, angry movements. “I assume that you understand that my priorities must come to the greater good first.”

Crowley feels all his anger dissipate. It’s replaced with the same empty acceptance he carried on his shoulders when Aziraphale accused him of treason and sent him to the tower. He raises his hands in an exaggerated shrug.

“Whatever,” he mutters and then turns his back on the prince. “If you need tea, fucking make it. Don’t get those kids out of bed because you can’t take ten minutes away from your fucking desk. You might see your time as invaluable, but that doesn’t give you the right to ruin their sleep schedule. They’re kids.”

Aziraphale sighs, but it’s laced with ire. “Indeed, I will make my apologizes in the morning.”

“It _is_ morning. You should sleep.” Crowley’s tone is tired. The daylight will bring him more hours slouched over his needlework. Just the concept makes his eyes burn. He drags himself into their room and strips as he goes, leaving a trail of purple clothes, boots, socks, shirt, trousers, and headscarf, behind him. He pulls back the mosquito netting and slides under the covers. Without pause, he blows out the lantern at the bedside.

In the living room, he hears Aziraphale shuffle around then close the library door behind him. Crowley rolls over and presses his face into his pillow. He’s so angry that he could cry. How is this his life? He may be surrounded by splendor, wealth, and magic, but he’s miserable. The man he loves is so close, but he cannot reach him anymore.

In their quiet mourning period, he’d warned Aziraphale of the very real worries he had: that the prince would obsess over Michael until it wore away at him. He thought that Aziraphale had heard him. Apparently, he was wrong. It takes a long time for him to fall to sleep, but he does finally drift away.

He does not sleep as late as he would like. Wensleydale is cleaning up his room when he blinks awake.

“Hey kid,” he says, rubbing his face. “Leave the mess. I made it.”

Wensleydale drops the trousers in his hands and steps back as if they’ll catch fire.

“I brought breakfast, Master Crowley,” he says, worriedly.

“Thanks,” Crowley yawns. “Have you see Prince Aziraphale?”

Wensleydale shrugs. “He’s at his desk.”

Crowley is too tired to feel angry. He just closes his eyes. “Toss me my dressing gown, please.”

Wensleydale collects the silk dressing gown and holds it open for Crowley. He yawns and slides off the mattress, then slips his arms into the sleeves.

“Go on, get out of here. Tell everyone to ignore cleaning our chambers today. We made the mess, we’ll get it cleaned up.”

Wensleydale’s eyes widen.

“I’m serious. Tell them. Now scoot.” He shoos the boy out. Then he rolls his shoulders and heads for the loo.

Once he has pissed, he makes a decision. He splashes his face and combs his hair. He cleans his teeth and strips out of his clothes. Naked, he checks himself in the mirror. He’s nearly ready, he thinks. His tattoos stand our stark and hard on his creamy skin, but he wants something more. He finds his box of chalk and begins to paint.

First, the silver-white band that arches across his forehead. No purple. He refuses to look at the color today. Instead, he selects the five delicate mother-of-pearl flowers that he bought at the market weeks ago. It seems like years, at this point. Carefully, he applies adhesive and sticks them to his forehead.Satisfied, he saunters into their living room.

Aziraphale is still seated at his desk. Somehow, he’s still awake. Judging by the frantic, stuttered movements of his hands, it’s nearly manic. Crowley opens both French doors to the library and poses there. Aziraphale doesn’t notice. Crowley rolls his eyes. He preens as he steps into Aziraphale’s peripheral view. He juts out a hip and tilts his shoulders. He turns his head and closes his eyes, making sure his dark lashes cover his cheeks.

Nothing.

Aziraphale’s quill scrapes on parchment. And Crowley glares. Angrily, he stands on one foot and uses the other to push the prince’s chair so that he spins to face the consort. Aziraphale’s quill slashes across the page with this movement and he looks up, ready to rage. He freezes, mouth open to yell, but unable to do anything but stare. Crowley reaches up and runs his fingers through his hair and pulls the ginger curls over his shoulder.

“Good morning, angel,” he purrs.

The prince blinks stupidly. Ink puddles on his parchment where his forgotten quill presses into the paper.

“I was wondering if you’d care to join me for breakfast?” Crowley says coquettishly. He twirls one of his curls around his long fingers and tilts his hip invitingly.

Aziraphale stutters. “I… um… I mean—I cannot. I have a meeting, but well, you see, umm.”

Internally, Crowley growls. The prince does not have meetings until nearly nine in the morning. Externally, he struts forward, crossing his legs with each long stride. Without a pause, he settles into Aziraphale’s lap and crosses his legs at the knee, then leans back to look the prince in the face.

“Just a little breakfast, angel?” he flirts and innocently brushes one finger across the prince's lapel.

Aziraphale stares at him as if he’s never seen him before. His hands clutch the arms of his chair.

“I… cannot. I have meetings. Important places to be,” he says haltingly.

Crowley places his hand on his chest over his heart and pouts. “Oh, can’t you spare just a moment?” He rubs his hand down his bare chest, through his pubic hair, and under his cock. He glides his hand up and gives his erection a loose pump.

Aziraphale’s eyes track Crowley’s hand and he nearly crows with victory. He _finally_ has the prince’s attention. Crowley tosses his head back as he gives himself another stroke. He ensures that his hair falls across Aziraphale’s hand and tickles his forearm.

“I have missed you,” Crowley whispers and wiggles his hips to feel Aziraphale’s growing interest. His erection rubs hot and hard against the consort’s naked hip. The prince gives a little groan but bites his lip to keep it contained.

Crowley licks his lips and pumps himself with a tighter fist. He watches Aziraphale through half-lidded eyes. His cheeks are flushed and his lips parted. His hand that grips the chair arm at Crowley’s knees raises to touch Crowley’s cheek.

An advisor knocks on the door and calls, “Prince Aziraphale! Urgent news! Please open the door!”

Aziraphale leaps to his feet. Crowley’s arms freewheel and spin, trying to find something to hold onto. It just means that he knocks over an inkpot when his bare arse hits the hard floor. The blue ink dumps over his shoulder and runs down his chest. He sits there, frozen, and stares at the blue liquid as it runs down his abs.

“Oh, oh dear,” Aziraphale whispers but looks back toward the door. “I have to… you just… I’ll be back.” And he hurries out to see whoever is pounding on their door again.

Crowley groans and lays down on his back on the floor. He listens and hears Aziraphale agree to leave immediately. He races back into the library muttering to himself about what would need to be done first. Then, as he hurries to his desk, he sees Crowley laying on the floor in a puddle of ink.

“Oh.”

He blinks at his consort. Crowley stares back at him.

“You’ll get that wiped up?” Aziraphale asks as he grabs a collection of documents from the desk. “Thank you, my dear!” And he runs out.

Crowley gives a shaky sigh and blinks back tears. Angry rows did not get his attention. Seduction did not get his attention. He sits up slowly and wonders if he’s lost his prince.As he stands, the now-empty ink well slides down his leg, leaving a trail of blue in his leg hair.

“Perfect,” he mutters, then seeks out something to clean the floor with.


	3. Reactions

Gabriel is facedown in the middle of their bed, snoring. Beelze wants to be snuggling with him too, but they’re currently curled over the toilet heaving their guts out. Three months of this shit, every morning and anytime they were even remotely near boiled chicken. They retch again and wipe the tears from their eyes. Vomiting is the worst.

Finally, they stagger to their feet and collapse back onto the mattress. Gabriel snorts and, half-awake, paws for them. When he finds their torso, he yanks them to his side and rolls over to spoon them from behind. He mutters something into his pillow and then presses his face into their hair. He’s asleep again instantly.

Beelze sighs and closes their eyes. It’s hard not to want to sleep when they’re held so tightly. Too many years apart and Beelze still thinks this dream might end. Carrying the King’s child might alter their chance of longevity. Then again, if anyone in the court has anything to say about it, they’ll be back in the Southern District faster than Beelze can blink. If the King has his way, on the other hand, they’ll be married two weeks after their official mourning ends.

The end of mourning cannot come fast enough. Beelze is tired of seeing the color purple. The dresser came from the haberdasher the day before and brought wedding fabric choices. Any color was welcome. They’d get married in baby-shit yellow if it was an option, at this point.

There is a dramatic and insistent knock from outside their bedchamber. Beelze closes their eyes and pretends to be asleep. The door to their study opens and someone walks toward their bedroom door.

“Gabriel?” Aziraphale calls and knocks on the door.

“Bugger,” Beelze growls and reaches behind them to poke the King in the hip. “Gabe, my prince, you gotta wake up.”

He snorts into their hair and smacks his lips. “Damn.”

“Gabriel?” Aziraphale calls again with another demanding knock. “I need to speak with you immediately.”

“Come in, brother,” Gabriel calls sleepily and rolls onto his back. He pulls Beelze with him and tucks them onto his chest.

Aziraphale stands in the doorway, unwilling to enter the chamber, unlike the other advisors.

“Michael has married Azrael of Fegefeuer. They are mounting an attack on Michael’s former kingdom. I need to travel to the Eastern Gate at once.”

Gabriel sits up but holds Beelze to his bare chest. “Go at once, brother, and order whatever troops you need to secure Eden from Michael’s control. We cannot have her on the throne there again.”

Aziraphale bows, but Gabriel interrupts him, “Take Crowley with you to Fellstone Keep. You’ll need him—“

The prince shakes his head, “I believe that the prince consort will need him here more. I’ll ride at once.” And he bows again and is gone.

Gabriel’s fingers tap on Beelze’s arm. “Why would he want to leave Crowley?” He looks down at them. “Are they having problems?”

Beelze presses their cheek to his pectoral. “The prince is obsessed, Gabriel. Surely you see that?”

Gabriel sighs and lays back down, but continues to rub his hands up and down their arms and shoulders. “I thought if I left it alone, he’d find a way to deal with it. Burn it out of his system is what I’ve always let him do.”

Beelze turns on their hip and lays across his chest. They prop their temple up with an elbow on the mattress.

“Crowley says that he’s convinced that Michael has a vendetta against the prince. Aziraphale is sure that Crowley will be caught up in all of it.” They shake their head and shiver as the King’s hands work under the straps of their camisole. His broad hands slip down their back and then back up and over their shoulders to thumb at their clavicle.

Gabriel hums then slides his hands over the front of their top and cups their breasts through the cami. He thumbs at their nipples. Beelze wriggles closer, pressing their chest further into his palms. His hands slide down their sides and settle on their hips. He lifts them up and settles them on his lap, their legs straddling his hips.

Beelze looks down at him incredulously, “Your brother is about to call for conscription and lead an army East. We better make this quick. You’re going to have people beating on the door—“ Their eyes widen and they struggle to scramble off the bed and under the insect netting, then run for the toilet. Vomiting is the worst. Vomiting during foreplay is somehow even worst than that.

In the ensuite, Gabriel joins them and holds back their hair. He mummers soft affections and rubs their back. They rest their head against his leg when he stands to get them a glass of water.

“I thought they said morning sickness would end at three months,” they grouse as he hands them the cup.

“Maybe you’re just lucky?” he asks and they pinch his calf in revenge. He strokes their hair again.

“Want me to draw you a bath?” he asks.

They shake their head no, then groan. “I’m not sure the sprog is done making me puke yet.”

Gabriel bends down and kisses the crown of their head. “I’ll get you some toast.”

His advisors crowd him when he heads out into their study for the breakfast tray, but he is not deterred. He brings back toast to their ensuite, but the advisors follow him like a line of ducklings. He also brings their dressing gown, which he slides around their shoulders.

“Here, Bee, sweetheart,” he says gently and helps them to their feet. He ties their dressing gown around them as they nibble on their toast.

“Your Majesty,” one of the advisors grouses, “I know it’s early, but this is a matter of war—“

“Indeed,” the King interrupts and guides Beelze to their bed, “and my Secretary of War, Prince Aziraphale has already counseled me on this matter this morning. He rides with troops immediately.”

“Just so! He left orders for conscription and a military spending budget that—“

“My brother will get anything that he needs for the troops. He has kept our kingdom safe for longer than any of you have ever served. You will rearrange the budget—“

“Pardon, me, sire,” another advisor interjects, “but where will this money come from?”

Gabriel fluffs Beelze’s pillows and gives them a look that clearly expresses his feelings on this matter. Beelze smiles secretly into their toast. “I _just_ said that we shall rearrange the current budget.”

A third advisor, one that Beelze privately calls “Shithead”, suggests, gleefully, “If the wedding were canceled, Your Majesty, then the wedding budget could be completely shifted—“

“The wedding is happening, Lord Singletary. That said, we will give up five percent of our wedding budget. Take fifteen percent from the household spending,” Gabriel decides.

Beelze runs the calculations in their head. “Wardrobe can be cut down… I think seventy percent. That should give us all one new non-purple outfit after mourning and handle servants’ uniforms. Nothing too frilly beyond that.” They nibble on their toast. “Take at least ten percent of the food budget--not the kitchen staff budget mind. If we cut back on some of the excesses for the court buffets—“

“Well, I hardly think that is necessary,” the first advisor argues, but Beelze carries on as if they’ve misheard him.

“—You believe we should take more? Very well. Remove thirty percent of the court's food budget. And we can do without paying a household staff for me. I haven’t had any ladies-in-waiting yet, so if we give up that budget, it should help.” They smile balefully at the advisors. “I would like to keep the budget for the new heir to the throne as it were, however, in case we have need of a healer or extra midwife.”

The advisors all shuffle their feet and look away. Gabriel grins at them. The advisors goaded Beelze, they got what they deserved.

“Gentlemen,” the King addresses, “I will get the Prince Consort settled and see you presently. Perhaps you may begin work drafting up our budgetary reductions?”

They all shuffle out, bowing in turn. The door shuts behind them in a final click and Gabriel is on the bed and sucking bruising kisses onto their neck.

“That was the sexiest thing you’ve ever done,” he moans, tearing the sash free of their dressing gown and siding his hands up under their camisole. He rucks the fabric up and presses kisses to their hard abdomen.

“What? Put some idiots in their places?” they chuckle and take another bite of toast.

Gabriel presses his face into their panties and wiggles their legs so he can brush his nose across their mound. This looks like the start to a surprisingly good morning, but then their stomach rolls. They drop their toast, accidentally kick Gabriel in the shoulder, and run for the toilet again.

“That was not sexy,” they groan between dry heaves when the King comes to lean on the doorframe.

“You’re growing my child, sweetheart,” he says with open adoration. “That’s beyond sexy.” He finds a flannel and wets it, then rubs it across the back of their neck. “Want some more toast?”

The mention of toast sends them retching again. He combs back their hair and sighs.

“I guess I’ll get dressed,” he complains. “Seeing as our offspring has no interest in letting you get up to anything in the bedroom.”

Beelze chuckles and takes the flannel from him to wipe their mouth. “Sorry, you’re being cockblocked by your kid.”

Gabriel waves it off. “I’m pretty sure that’s part of parenting.” He squats down behind them, pulls the strap of their cami off their shoulder, and presses a kiss to their bare skin. “Take care of yourself, Bee. Should I send for Crowley?”

Beelze swallows. “I think I’ll wallow in misery alone. Plus, he’s probably trying to say goodbye to Aziraphale.”

Gabriel nods and kisses their shoulder again. “I’ll stay close then. I’ll be out in our study. Yell if you need me.”

Then he stands and leaves to dress. Beelze lays down on the cold tile and grumbles at their abdomen.

“Listen up, sprog, and listen good. Your father is a good man and far more patient than I am. If you kill the mood again tonight though, I think even he will have words.” Beelze rolls their forehead onto the cold ceramic. “So do your little pre-birth teenage rebellion thing now so I can get laid tonight. You understand?”

Clearly the kid is theirs and Gabriel’s because it’s stubborn as fuck. No sooner than the words are out of their mouth than they are clutching the toilet bowl again.

“Cheeky,” they growl as they retch.


	4. Negotiations and Reconciliations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I've run out of secondary characters to repurpose in this story... this will prove to be a problem. Sigh.

News of Michael and Azrael’s union unsettles Prince Aziraphale more than he can admit. His informants had reliably tracked her movements to the distant sea and onto a merchant ship bound for Fegefeuer. He’d set his orders in motion then with the King’s blessings.

Captain Device and Lieutenant Pulsifer had already marched two platoons to the Eastern gate the week prior. Aziraphale called it “soldier’s intuition”. It had yet to desert him or lead him astray. Now knowing that Michael planned to use Azrael’s forces, he knows he sent too few to the East.

He scripts a letter for the butler, Mr. Tyler, at Fellstone Keep to prepare the house for him. He pauses and looks out to the living room. Crowley is seated at his pianoforte plucking at keys randomly. He stares out at the sea with a thousand-yard stare. Aziraphale sets the quill down and walks out.

He looks at consort. Blue ink stains Crowley’s collarbone and disappears below his shirt. It looks discordant with the purple he’s wearing. Crowley meets Aziraphale’s eye.

“I heard you’re leaving,” Crowley notes and places both hands into proper form. He plays a few opening bars to a song, then sits back, music forgotten. His hands slide into his lap.

Aziraphale walks nearer. He studies Crowley’s face. It’s drawn and gray, like worry has sucked his joy away. Guilt surges in the prince’s belly.

“Yes, Michael will make a play for her throne. I’m joining my troops at the Eastern Gate; we’ll march to the Fegefeuer border.” Aziraphale touches the smooth wood of the piano lid. Crowley returns his long fingers to the keys and plays something sad and longing. He watches the keys, not the prince.

“And you’ll send for me when you’re settled?” he asks, but in such a way that suggests he already knows the answer.

“Beelze will need you,” Aziraphale states but the words feel like ash in his mouth. Crowley strides a key with particular vigor.

“And you? Do you have any need for me anymore?” Crowley asks, his voice pitched low.

Aziraphale’s brow furrows. “Of course, I do, my dear boy. How could you think any differently?”

Crowley leaps up from the pianoforte and stalks across to the far wall, then paces back. “I don’t know, angel, perhaps because this is the first time you’ve spoken to me in three weeks?”

The prince startles. “My dear, that’s a bit melodramatic. We talked last night.”

Crowley laughs, but it’s a dark thing. “You call _that_ talking?”

Aziraphale fidgets. “Perhaps last night is a poor choice, but we’ve had many conversations. Dinner, the other night? On the balcony? We had duck!”

The consort shakes his head and looks at the prince in disbelief. “Aziraphale, that was nearly a month ago.”

The prince scoffs and reaches up to brush his mouth. He’s surprised to find a beard lining his chin. He blinks. How long has it been since he shaved? He discreetly sniffs himself. Bathed? When did he last change clothes?

Crowley seems to think he has some sort of in for the conversation based on this silence. He presses his case, “I’ve missed you, my prince. Let me take care of you. I’ll make us some tea? Or a bath? Let me take you to bed.”

Aziraphale holds up his hand to stop him. “There’s no time. My duty to—“

“—the King, yeah yeah yeah. I could repeat it verbatim.”

Crowley’s voice is despondent and hugs himself as he looks down at the piano bench. “Let me come with you, angel.”

Aziraphale pats the piano lid affectionately. “Beelze has no court. You’re all they have. It’s not fair to drag you away—“

Crowley slumps onto the bench again but angles himself so that his back is the prince. “You’re only keeping me here for the prince consort? I take it that you’ll send me back to the Southern District once the baby is born?”

“What? No!” Aziraphale sputters. “Crowley, my darling, I have clearly neglected you, but if Michael is able to make a stand again—“

Crowley doesn’t let him finish. He just stands and walks into their bedroom with a sort of dreamy, broken expression on his face, as if he’s already been cast aside. The prince takes a few steadying breaths and follows. Crowley is in their bed in the fetal position.

Aziraphale stands between the break in the room dividers and watches him. He can see tears streaking down the consort’s cheeks.

“I confess that I do not understand why you are reacting this way,” he says, aiming for a level tone. Crowley reaches up and wipes his eyes with his fingertips.

“You know, I’ve never been in love before,” the consort admits, but his voice is thick and his nose stuffed up. “I didn’t know that it sucked this badly.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “You’re intentionally ignoring what I am saying to you. This is for your safety.”

Crowley groans in annoyance and wipes his nose. “I am not ignoring you. You have said the exact same things for three months. You are _obsessed_. You have not listened to me once—“

“Fine,” Aziraphale roars, suddenly passed any point of patience. “Tell me what is so damn important that you’re sulking like a child!”

Crowley stares at him through the insect netting and a tear tracks down his face. He wipes at it ineffectually and looks even more hurt.

“You are killing yourself with this,” he whispers, but even at the volume, his voice is still tear-thick. “You are making me watch the man that I love _kill_ himself with an obsession. You push me away again and again. Nothing I do seems to bring you back to me; I’ve already lost you. It’s like Michael already won.”

Aziraphale’s feet feel leaden. He cannot move. Crowley’s yellow eyes shine with heartbreak.

“Let me come with you, please. I’ll stay away from the front—I can stay Fellstone Keep. Please do not push me away again. If you die in battle, then at least I will have had that.”

The words slip out of the prince without conscious thought, “Your sibling needs you.”

Crowley sinks back into the mattress, tucking around his knees tightly. “And I need you,” he says with a deadened voice. He rolls and hides his face in a pillow.

There is so much to do from packing to planning. Aziraphale cannot find any desire to do it. He stands rooted at the foot of his marriage bed and watches his partner cry silently into his pillow.

“I need you safe, Crowley,” he says finally. It’s soft and honest. Crowley’s shoulders hitch and he presses his face into the pillow harder. “She’ll kill you.”

“What does it matter?” Crowley croaks. “You won’t even look at me most days. _Fuck_ , won’t you come here and hold me, you selfish bastard?”

Aziraphale fidgets and tangles his fingers together over his waist. “I’ve not bathed—“

“—I don’t give a shit. Aziraphale, angel, please, _please_ come here.”

The prince takes heavy steps around the edge of the mattress until he’s standing alongside his consort. The mosquito netting might as well be a brick wall.

Gods above, how did he not see it had gotten this bad? He wants to lift the insect netting. He wants to slip in beside his lover and hold him. He also knows that he needs to be bathing and preparing to ride. The warring needs incapacitate him.

Crowley watches him with a dead expression. “I’ve already lost you, haven’t I?” he asks. He slides over across the mattress so that he’s right within Aziraphale’s grip. “I lost you to Michael.” He shakes his head and gives a dark, humorless laugh. “You should have married her. Two equals on the battlefield, obsessed with one another.”

“She hates me,” Aziraphale notes and reaches out to pull the netting up. It’s like lifting Crowley’s veil that first night and seeing his serpentine eyes for the first time. Only now, those are ringed red from crying and wrinkled with new worry lines. Across his forehead is smudged chalk. Aziraphale reaches out and thumbs at the silver-white color.

“You had flowers this morning,” he notes and touches where two of the five were stuck. This morning feels like a dream somehow.

Crowley wipes his eyes again. “Yeah, I thought it might catch your fancy.”

Aziraphale’s fingers trace down those sharp cheekbones and touch his lower lip. Crowley is staring at him, face open and eyes brightening incrementally.

“You are lovely, my darling. You are everything that I fancy,” he whispers, then cups Crowley’s chin. “I wish I had the time…”

Crowley blinks slowly. His eyes are startlingly yellow against his pale skin. “Make time then. Take me with you. We can talk as we travel.”

Aziraphale leans forward and presses a kiss to Crowley’s forehead. He means it as a way to stop the conversation. Instead, it triggers a clock somewhere in him. The last memory he has of kissing this beloved man is weeks in the past. A strangled noise escapes him.

“I am so sorry, my love,” he whispers and presses another kiss to the chalk-smudged skin. “I’ve neglected you terribly.”

“Take me with you,” Crowley begs. “Angel, please. Look, I am begging you, really. Please let me follow along.”

Aziraphale strokes his thumb along the edge of Crowley’s jaw. “I need to pack. You need to look after your sibling.”

He steps back and feels a physical pain as he does so. He reaches out again and brushes his fingers across Crowley’s cheek. “Would you draw me a bath? I seem to have,” he pauses and looks down at his front, “forgotten myself.”

Crowley watches him, no less sad, then climbs off their bed with a sniffle. “Of course, angel.”

Aziraphale strips and climbs into the hot water that Crowley has poured. The water smells of olive oil and it gives him pause. It’s a quick and small thing, but so devoted. It makes his breath catch. How has he overlooked this? he asks himself as he lowers into the water. Crowley kneels at the side of his tub and sets to work. First, he tips Aziraphale’s head back and shaves off the wild, curly beard. He rubs soap into his skin. He washes his hair and helps him towel off. All of it is gentle but mechanical. Crowley has checked out.

“Clean your teeth. I’ll find your uniform,” Crowley states, but it’s rote. There is little emotion in his eyes. The prince watches him go and almost calls for him. What would he say? He will not give in on this, but Crowley is being stubborn.

When Aziraphale emerges from the ensuite, Crowley has gathered a bundle of items that he will need: parchment, ink, quills, changes of clothes, candles, matches, a canteen, and books.

Next to all this, is a pile of Crowley’s things. All the prince would need to say is “yes” and his consort would be with him on their way East. It’s tempting, especially when he sees a bit of red lace in the pile of the consort’s clothing.

It’s a temptation certainly, but not one that he can allow. He decides to press his advantage before Crowley can.

“What if the line broke,” he comments as he begins to dress, “and the enemy surged toward you?”

“I’d be far away. I already said I’d stay at the Eastern Gate. I just want to be closer to you—“

“You don’t think that I would abandon my post to protect you?” Aziraphale clarifies. “Because that is exactly what would happen. I need you to stay here. _Very_ far from danger.”

Crowley stares at him hard. Instead of backing down, he seems more ready to fight at this comment. “You sang a very different tune when I was locked in the tower during a bombardment.”

Aziraphale freezes. They’ve never actually discussed that.

“That is not fair,” Aziraphale argues. “I was wrong, so very wrong that day.”

“You’re wrong right now too.”

Aziraphale laces up his breeches and glares. “You’re being childish. You’re suggesting that my duties are something I can neglect whenever I choose—“

“I told you once, my prince, that I do not suffer hypocrites well. You swear by duty, but then _ignore me_ for weeks on end. You swear you want to keep me safe, but only when it suits you.”

“There is nothing hypocritical in what I am suggesting! I have only wanted to keep you safe and whole, my dear. You see my actions as the only disregard for you. I see it as only protecting you and your interests!”

Crowley reaches down and refolds one of Aziraphale’s shirts to be packed.He does not look at the prince as he argues, “You forget _my_ duty is to keep you living your life: protecting you, pouring affection on your head, and being with you. You’ve not let me do my own duty. You’re keeping me from it now.”

“You’re not coming East with me. That’s not up for discussion.” He tugs on his tunic and shimmies it down his hips. Crowley opens the trunk at the foot of their bed and pulls out Aziraphale’s sword. Tied in a fraying knot to the handle is a piece of black silk. Crowley touches it as he lays the sword on the bed.

Then he goes to the bureau and retrieves something. Then he crawls up onto their bed and stands up. Hanging on the wall above their headboard is their Unity Cord. With a small blade, he cuts a strand off and then kneels down. He ties it to the sword’s handle. It stands out red against the black.

“I love Beelze,” Crowley notes, his voice thick with tears, but strong, “they’re the only family I ever had. I love you more. I just want you to love me more than your duty.”

Aziraphale’s hands shake as he takes his sword from his companion, “I do love you, Crowley.”

Crowley sits on the edge of their bed. “I know you do. But your commitment to me is conditional—“

“—what!? That’s absolutely untrue!”

Crowley snorts. “And what if I ran off, directly against your requests, and answered the conscription call?” His eyebrows raise minutely as the prince reacts loudly.

“No! Absolutely not!” Aziraphale shouts and grabs the consort by the shoulders. “How can you even think that? I forbid it.”

Crowley shrugs him off and slides off the bed. “Conscription by the order of the King? Who are you to forbid me from serving my monarch and country—especially he who touts the value of duty and service to the crown.”

“Do you hear yourself?” Aziraphale rails. “You’re a dancer! A musician! An artist! Do you want to take up a pike? No. Absolutely not.”

Crowley slouches against the poster of their bed and wipes as his nose with his sleeve. “And what if I waited until you’d gone and reported for duty then? Would you still love me then?”

“That is madness! Is this some sort of test? If I say yes, but refuse to let you enlist then I’m a hypocrite, but just as much if I allow it! Crowley, you’re putting me into an impossible position!”

“So stop denying me the right to be at your side!”

“I am trying to keep you safe, damn it!” the prince pants, his face reddening.

“And I am trying to keep you from killing yourself from this mad fixation! You swear this is for my safety, but it’s like you’re afraid of shadows!” Crowley shoves off the bedpost and stalks toward him, like a hungry lion. “I am yours, angel, but I am my own man. I am coming with you. I’ll either be your consort or your soldier. Your choice.”

Aziraphale stands with his fists clenched at his sides and practically snorting his exhales. “You will ride with me,” he finally decides, “but only as far as Fellstone Keep, then you will return to the palace.”

Crowley stands in front of him, perfectly posed for all his lanky height. He’s unclear if he should thank the prince, that much is apparent.

“Get packed,” Aziraphale demands and he grabs his leather holdall. “You’ll need a weapon and more to wear. No doubt we’ll have the gentry visit the Keep when they hear you’ve come along. I’ll see to the armory and the jewelry.”

Crowley watches Aziraphale’s hands. “We’re going to war, angel. I don’t need baubles.”

Aziraphale turns to face him, annoyed. “If you are going along with me, then you do as I say. I say you need more formal wear, some weaponry, and jewels. You will stay at my side unless I specify otherwise. You will keep a guard when away from me. Do you agree to my terms?”

Crowley leans over slowly, telegraphing his movements as if he expects the prince to move away. Something hurts in Aziraphale’s heart at this. Crowley kisses his lips, but it’s nearly chaste. “Only under one condition.”

Aziraphale shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Which is?”

“You let me take some of that load you’re carrying on your shoulders.” Crowley’s lips are only millimeters away from his.

He leans forward and their lips brush. “I’ll try, my love.”

Crowley gives a heartbroken cry and surges forward. Their kiss is bruising in its sudden intensity. Aziraphale gasps and Crowley takes the moment to slide his tongue into the prince’s mouth. Aziraphale latches onto his consort. He pulls him tight against his chest and kisses his lover deeply. Crowley clutches Aziraphale’s shirt, bunching the tunic in his fists.

When they break apart, they’re both breathless. Crowley presses his forehead on the prince’s shoulder. Aziraphale combs his fingers through the ends of his partner’s hair.

“I need to leave. If you’re coming with me then you need to get packed.” Crowley nods against his shoulder.

The prince slips away and into their living room. People bustle around. Some collect luggage and others deliver intel. Travel preparations for a marching army are nothing straightforward. Aziraphale reads and signs documents. He selects maps and books that he’ll need. A servant takes them from him and packs them into a crate.

Shortly, Crowley joins them. He’s dressed in something Aziraphale has never seen before: his own take on a traditional _oiran_ abaya. It’s fashioned in mourning colors. The skirt is layers of flowing black fabric that looks purple in certain light. It is trimmed in purple ribbons. Purple and lavender bouquets are embroidered on the sleeves. He’s tied his hair up into a complex braid and has hidden under a purple veil. He can make out the glimmer of fresh chalk across his forehead.

“My dear?” Aziraphale calls when he sees this attire. “Where are your traveling clothes?”

Crowley frowns. “This is what I have that’s appropriate.”

Aziraphale hands the map in his hand to the servant who is helping him pack. “You'll need something sturdier. Change for boots too, my dear.”

Aziraphale watches Crowley. He’s uncomfortable. He disappears into their room and returns wearing boots. Otherwise, his outfit is the same.

Aziraphale sighs. His partner must really be concerned about not wearing purple. “Crowley, at this point, I’m less concerned about mourning attire. Any travel garments will do.”

The companion is suddenly extremely interested in the luggage. He adds Aziraphale’s leather holdall and his own beaten-up carpetbag to the pile of luggage by the door. Several crates of books and parchment are already there to be added to the carriage. Next to the fine craftsmanship of his own bag, and even the crates, the carpetbag looks shabby. Aziraphale makes a mental note to acquire a nicer bag for his partner.

“This is what I have, angel. When I’ve traveled in the past it’s just been in _oiran_ robes.” He tucks an umbrella with a parrot-head handle under his arm.

Aziraphale catches Crowley’s hand. “Do you have a riding cloak?”

Crowley blushes furiously. “Ride? On horseback?”

Aziraphale gapes. “You cannot ride?” Crowley looks away, embarrassed. Aziraphale shakes himself. “We’ll soon remedy that. Today you’ll ride in a wagon or with me.” He turns to Adam who is hurrying all about the room, generally being in people’s way as opposed to helping.

“Adam! Go find Master Crowley a riding cape. Long and hooded, if you can.”

Adam looks thoughtful. “A waterproof one? I could find one in the dresser’s!” And he races off.

Crowley looks around uncomfortably and then tucks his umbrella into his bag. Servants duck around him and collect items to load into the carriage. Crowley wanders over to his drafting table and touches the items there.

“My dear, you do not have to accompany me. I believe you’ve made your point. I’ve been wrong—“

Crowley grabs a pair of sunglasses from the top of his drafting table and hangs them from the top of his _abaya_.

“Nope, too late, angel. I’m coming along. Horses be damned; I’ll walk if I have to.”

The prince hums. “Very well. Add this to your boot, please.” He says and hands over an ivory-handled boot knife. Crowley nods and follows directions. The prince next hands him a dirk in a sheath. The dagger will easily fit into a bag, pocket, or hang at the companion’s side. Crowley glares at it. Instead, he turns his back and collects a leather-bound journal and some pencils. He hugs them to his chest awkwardly.

“Excuse us a moment, won’t you?” Aziraphale orders to the people all around and suddenly they’re alone in their chambers. He walks to Crowley’s side and takes the items from his hands. He sets them on the sofa.

“You agreed.”

“I did, but what am I supposed to do with that thing? Tie it in my hair?”

Aziraphale examines the complex plaited chignon under the sheer purple veil. He grins teasingly.

“It could be a pin?”

Crowley huffs and rolls his eyes. He takes the blade and considers all the places he could put it. Finally, he ties it onto his sash with his purse. Amused, Aziraphale draws his attention back by touching his cheek softly.

“Crowley, may I show you something, my heart’s darling?”

Crowley pulls his veil over, doubling it over his hair. Before he can verbally answer, Aziraphale takes him by the hand and guides him into the library. He slides one of the larger desk drawers open and pulls out a wooden box. Once it’s on the desktop, he unlatches it. Inside are little silk sachets of jewelry. They’re different sizes, ranging from rings to ornate circlets.

“What’s all this, angel?”

Aziraphale hesitates and studies Crowley’s suspicious expression. “I’m not trying to buy your forgiveness, my dear. I asked that these be brought from the safe for you. Please see this as my promise to try and do better.”

He plucks open the multiple bags until he finds the ones he wants. He pulls three out and hands these to his consort. “I’d like you to take these with you.”

Crowley nods with wide, childlike eyes, but does not open them. He holds them close to his chest as if they’re precious. “Angel, I don’t need all this.”

Aziraphale stares at his consort’s bright eyes and wonders how he could have ignored this beautiful man. He grabs the smallest pouch back. From it, he pulls a braided gold ring with square obsidian stone.

“I wish I could tell you that this has some sort of sentimental value before today.” He lifts Crowley’s hand and slips the ring onto his right pointer finger. “I thought it would suit you if you’ll wear it.”

Crowley stares at his hand and the bright gold. “You chose this for me?”

Aziraphale fidgets with the sachet. “It appears that I’ve lost more time than I can even imagine. I went to the vault and selected these the week that Michael attacked the castle.” He looks from his lover’s hand to his face. His voice breaks when he speaks, “My love, _Crowley_ , forgive me.”

The companion steps into his arms and holds his back tightly. “Please don’t shut me out, again, Aziraphale.”

The prince clutches him in return. “I promise to listen to you better, my darling.”

The door bursts open in their living room and Adam tumbles in holding a dark gray wool cloak. The moment is broken as the boy stands panting in their doorway.

“I found one! It’s the longest one we have! I think it was the King’s—I mean the dead king, not the current king,” the boy declares all in one breath. “Anyway, he’s not using it. Is this the one you wanted?”

Crowley gives a silly smirk and holds his hand out for the mantle. “It looks great, bud.”

Aziraphale takes hold of the thick fabric and settles it on Crowley’s shoulders. It’s actually longer than he needs, but it’s thick and can be taken up later. Crowley pats it down and checks for pockets. He finds several sewn to the inner lining. In one of these, he tucks his purse and his new jewels.

“Thank you, buddy. This is great.” Adam grins and then turns like a top, grabs a crate, and races out.“That kid is wasted as a servant.”

“My brother says the same thing about Brian and Pepper. I think Wensleydale could do well in academics,” Aziraphale notes. “It’s hard when they’re children. All I ever see if potential. None of them were born to scrub floors or fetch tea.”

Crowley resettles his veil. “I wasn’t born to be bound to a prince, but here I am. Don’t let birth limit them, angel.”

Aziraphale guides him into the living room with a hand in the center of his back. The pile of items by the door is mostly packed. Aziraphale returns to their bedroom and brings back the silk bag Crowley once sent spare clothes to him in. He puts Crowley’s book and pencils into it, then hands it over before attaching his sword and scabbard to his belt.

“If you plan to keep your brolly with you, I’d add it to this for the saddlebags.” Crowley nods and grabs the parrot-handled monstrosity.

They walk side-by-side down to the bailey. Crowley keeps sneaking glances at the prince as if he cannot believe they’re together. Aziraphale reaches out and takes his hand.Crowley steps closer at this touch.

The troops are milling about, kissing their families, and checking their packs. When Aziraphale enters the bailey, they begin to finish their goodbyes and move into marching formation. A strong wind blows off the ocean, but the clouds are white and widespread. There is no threat of a storm.

The King and the Prince Consort stand at the wicket gate in the large doors that enter the Keep formally. Aziraphale and Crowley approach them and each bow. Crowley covers his eyes with one hand and touches his sigil with the other, still maintaining the appropriate bow for an _oiran_ in mourning.

“I see that Master Crowley is accompanying you,” Gabriel teases as if he expected nothing less.

“Yes, well, you see,” Aziraphale begins, then with a dramatic sigh, “he forced my hand. He threatened to enlist if I didn’t take him along.”

Gabriel gives a joyful laugh. “Well done, Crowley.” Aziraphale sputters, but the King continues. “You’ll find that my brother will often hear your opinions and then kindly do whatever he best pleases. In the past I have chosen to let him simply run himself out of steam—I think your approach may be more successful.”

“What? Forcing my hand?” Aziraphale asks, indigently.

“It’s just creative problem solving,” Crowley notes, amused. “Of course I can reward him in a very different way than you should, Sire.”

Gabriel grins. “So you can.”

Beelze hands Crowley a woven basket with a grin. “I didn’t want you to get bored.” Crowley looks under the lid and groans. “You are not getting out of your share!” his sibling snaps, playfully.

Aziraphale leans over and looks into the basket. An abundance of altar cloth material, golden thread, and needles stare back him.

“Fine,” Crowley groans. Adam snatches this basket up and adds it to the wagon with their carryalls. He salutes at the group by the step, apparently having realized that he forgot to bow. They ignore him and continue their conversation.

“I still do not understand why you didn’t ask the court to help,” the King says, but it’s phrased as a question.

“We asked Lady Kein,” Beelze sniffs, irritated. “She stitched it backward.”

“An honest mistake?” Aziraphale asks.

“Hardly!” Beelze buzzes. “They stitched the word ‘hussy’ into the crest.”

Both royal brothers wince. A groom approaches with Aziraphale’s riding gloves. He takes them as Crowley pulls on a pair of his own, although black leather instead of brown suede.

Aziraphale’s palfrey shakes out his mane in the strong breeze. He’s tall for his type with a long nose. Crowley slides past the prince and touches the black horse’s side. He turns sharply to look the consort, even as the groom tries to keep him facing forward. Aziraphale watches. Crowley is clearly taken with the creature.

“This is Bentley, Master Crowley,” the groom introduces. “We’ve added the pillion pad for you. He’ll tire out soon, though, with the weight of two.” The groom looks uncomfortable broaching the subject.

“I’ll ride in the wagon then,” Crowley suggests, but Aziraphale steps up behind him and squeezes his arm.

“Never fear,” he says as he mounts, “we’re only riding to the Holy Grove to the east today. About twelve kilometers. You’ll have to ride in the wagon tomorrow or else he’ll be injured.” Crowley nods.

The groom seems satisfied and hands the reins up to Aziraphale. He takes these loosely in his right hand and then extends his left for Crowley. Crowley reaches up and takes his hand. The groom leans down and offers his hand for Crowley to step into. He hoists, Crowley jumps, and Aziraphale tugs. Bentley stomps in annoyance as Crowley settles, side-saddle, behind the prince.

“Good boy,” Crowley soothes and rubs the horse’s flank by the edge of his pillion pad. Bentley’s ears twitch back at his words. The groom smiles.

“He likes you, Master Crowley.”

“We’ll get you to be a horseman soon, my dear,” Aziraphale agrees as Crowley loops his arms around his middle.

The only advisors worth their salt, Commanders Harrison and Cortese also mount up. The useless horde of generals, whose names Aziraphale never bothers to learn, all pile into the assorted wagons, forcing more troops to march.

The King watches the convoy ready to ride out and gestures to the heralds. Trumpets sound. Crowley snuggles closer to Aziraphale’s back.

“May the gods above share their blessings upon you as you travel and protect our land. Know that you go with our affection and loyalty, as we know you give yours to us. We ask extra protection and blessing on our brother Prince Aziraphale and his hand-fasted consort, Master Crowley. Go with swift feet, dearest brother.”

Aziraphale bows in the saddle. Crowley lets go of his waist to cover his eyes and touches his sigil as he also bends in a bow.

“All hail King Gabriel!” he calls as he turns his horse. The troops take up the call. Aziraphale guides Bentley through the portcullis and into the main streets. Behind them, wagons roll and feet begin to march. People line along their route out of the city centre. They wave flags and handkerchiefs. Each whip in the wind. They hold signs of blessings and throw marigolds into the street before Bentley’s hooves. Companions are often grouped together and they ring little bells when they see Crowley. He nods at them each while touching his sigil, they all mirror the movement solemnly. The convoy rolls out of the capital slowly and Crowley is mostly quiet.

Aziraphale feels that he needs to fill the silence.

“There’s an art museum down that way,” he nods to the left. “We’ll go sometime. They have some lovely oil paintings that you’ll appreciate. Do you care for sculptures? They have a marble gallery that is absolutely stupendous.”

Crowley hums and rests his cheek against Aziraphale’s back. It’s such a tender gesture that the prince holds the reigns slack in one hand and clasps his other over Crowley’s that circles his waist.

“Are you all right, my darling?” he asks quietly. Bentley’s hooves echo on the cobblestones.

Crowley gives a thick chuckle that suggests tears once again. “I’m just thanking my goddess. She’s given me another gift.”

Aziraphale twists their fingers together. “What? A ride on a lovely palfrey?”

Bentley’s ears turn back to listen to his praise. Crowley kisses the fabric of the prince’s riding cloak.

“She’s brought you back to me when I thought it was a lost cause.”

If Aziraphale could take Crowley in his arms at that moment, he would. Instead, he lifts Crowley’s hand to his mouth and uses his teeth to pull the leather glove back from his wrist. He presses kisses to any exposed expanse of skin there.

“Crowley,” he praises, “I do love you so. And, regardless of what you thought, I never left.”

Crowley rubs his cheek on Aziraphale’s shoulder blade.“I don’t think you have a concept of how much I love you, angel.”

They ride for an hour wrapped around each other in this manner. Overhead, the clouds roll by quickly with the wind off the sea. They darken from white to gray as the day passes. The wind strengthens, but the sun is still bright.


	5. The Eldest of Four Brothers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading and sharing such kind comments.

Years ago, the people of their land would have had many things to say about the royal princes. Prince Gabriel, they might have said, loved the outdoors and exercise. He could be seen jogging the beach by the grand palace or swimming in the bracing sea. They would not say that he was humble. He was a braggart and a showman. They’d also shrug. He was the next in line for the throne and, well, his father was much worse—who would expect any different?

Metatron was sent to the best tutors in the realm as his mother the Queen wanted him to join academia. The people of the West where he grew up would comment, however, that he was as dumb as a rock. He longed for power and lorded over the people there with an iron will that cared nothing for their wellbeing. He dismissed his studies, as his passion was for the horse. Riding and hunting were in his blood. His stables were the envy of all who loved the palfrey and the charger. Of course, he also loved to see these animals race. He gambled too much, they’d say. He married young and gambled away her dowery. The people were not surprised by this either.

The people looked to the youngest prince, Aziraphale, and laughed, for he was a surprise. A boy sent into the military with a love for the written word, music, and theater. He loved to dance and sing with his troops. He was, without question, a glutton, but the people respected that he shared his love of overabundance with them. He was raised far from the Queen or King’s thumb. He knew the coarseness of troops and, while he reveled in the finer things of life, respected these soldiers and their families the most.

Of course, Sandalphon loved the people too. Well, the female form, anyhow. While the second youngest prince was slated for the church, it could not be said that he was chaste. When the crown prince Gabriel visited his younger brother in the Southern District, he learned just how _known_ Sandalphon had become.

He, himself, was thirty-one and handsome. Prince Gabriel knew how people studied his strong jaw and sighed over his violet eyes. He enjoyed the lingering looks but had yet to take a bride. Certainly, there had been fumbles in the dark or in the stables: hurried hands and breathless giggles, but that was all. Courtesans who wanted favor. Gabriel was flattered but expected nothing less.

Sandalphon is twenty-six and not nearly as handsome. Yet, as they enter the teahouse that their uncle suggested, women hung on him and fawned over him. He looped his arm around two separate companions (or common prostitutes, Gabriel couldn’t tell) and slunk into the teahouse. Music played loudly from a band in the center of the room and multiple _oirans_ danced on elevated stages.

Gabriel found a glass of sake pressed into his hand and he frowned. “I’d rather an ale if you have it?” he called, irritated, to the bartender.

Then, a new companion danced into the center stage. They were petite. They dressed in a loose-legged black bodysuit that cinched at the ankle but was open all along their leg up to their hip. This same fabric was sheer across the top, from waist up. It allows a view of a sequin-incrusted red bustier. They wore crystals in their dark hair, which shimmered in the light. Gabriel was mesmerized by the way they moved. They had grace in spades. Then, they flicked their impossibly slender wrist and followed it around in a spin.

And their face took the prince’s breath away.

“Of course you’d fall for _that_ one,” Sandalphon tutted. “One of our cousin’s girls—or whatever.”

The hooker who was settled in his brother’s lap wiggled her hips and Sandalphon tucked an obscenely large wad of bills into the top of her dress. Gabriel only watched for a moment, before he turned again to face the dancer from Lucifer’s companion house.

They caught his eye and their graceful movements halted in surprise. Gabriel, completely out of his element, gave them an awkward wave. The companion smirked and jumped off the stage with a perfect grand jete.They made their way to him and only stopped as waiters balanced heavy trays between them and their goal. Gabriel gulped.

The companion gave a smooth bow. “Your Royal Highness,” they greeted with a friendly tone. Gabriel held out his hand to take theirs. The companion raised an eyebrow before hesitantly resting their fingers in his palm. He pulled their hand to his mouth and kissed their hand.

“As you know me,” he drawled, hopefully in a flirtatious way, “may I know your name?”

The dancer grinned and drew back their hand. “Beelze,” they said. (Years later they would insist that they told the prince exactly that. Gabriel would argue that they clearly said “Bee”.)

“I believe you know my cousin, Lucifer?” the prince asked, as he gestured for them to join them in their seat. Beelze looked uncomfortable.

“Forgive me, Your Grace, I cannot join… common whores,” they warned as they looked at the one giving Sandalphon a lap dance. “If he were not a prince, his guests would not be welcome here.”

Gabriel hopped up and held out his hand to them. “Show me what we should be doing here? I’ve never been to a teahouse.”

Beelze smiled and led him to an alcove away from the band. They’re tucked away, out of the line of sight. They helped him to sit on a wide pillow and poured him a cup of tea. They laughed and talked for hours.

When Gabriel left the Southern Districts, he has spent hours at their side. He will dream of their delicate hands and buzzing laugh, but they will not meet in person again for three years.It will take a dinner party at some merchant’s home. He’d excitedly invited the royal family in hopes of improving his status in the land.

“I’ve invited some of the most talented _oirans_!” the merchant declared.

Gabriel frowned and the merchant looked away. Companions were a risky subject after his mother the Queen’s ruling. Not that their talents were any way diminished. Dueling harp music drifted from the parlor and the prince followed it.

There, at the closest harp, sat Beelze and beside them a ginger-haired companion. They looked like art, both lovely companions with gold-gilt instruments. Their fingers flew over the strings and they plucked harmonies. It sounded like water flowing from a fountain. Beelze saw him and shock registered in their eyes. The mammoth instrument wobbled against their shoulder.The red-head at their side glanced at them and raised an eyebrow as the music finished. The audience applauded and both companions rose and bowed. The prince was slow to applaud and only did so when Beelze looked at him.

“Your Royal Highness,” Beelze greeted with another, more courtly, bow. “This is my little brother, Crowley.”

Crowley gave a deep bow, “Hello, Your Royal Highness. My sibling has many things to say about you.”

Gabriel looked inquisitively at Beelze, who looked ready to stab their brother. “All good, I should hope?”

“Oh, very,” Crowley jested, before giving another bow. “Excuse me. I must see to our hosts.”

Gabriel looked slowly down Beelze’s attire. “I’ve never seen you in a gown.”

It flowed off one shoulder and straight down their body, without any shape. The fabric gathered toward the knees and then flared out again.

“It suits you,” he decided. They looked away to hide their blush.

The rest of the party was ignored. Crowley was left to tend to the entertainment alone. The Prince and his companion sat on a far balcony and drank for hours. They laughed and talked. When they parted, Beelze gave him a knowing smile.

“Write me this time,” they said and exited for their carriage.

If Sandalphon had known about their two and half year correspondence, perhaps he would not have invited Beelze to the palace. Instead of distracting Gabriel, Beelze invigorated him. The Queen would fall ill in these years and Gabriel would be named Prince Regent. Beelze would guide him until he drove them away.

Of course, things have changed. King Gabriel sits at the head of the table listening to some idiot advisor that Beelze refers to as “Dickwad”. This one wants to revise the changes to the palace budget again.

“Perhaps we were too hasty in our advisement of reducing the court’s budget,” he suggests. Other advisors mutter their agreement. Gabriel rubs his face.

“I will not give on this,” he states. “We will not have _revelry_ while our people die on the frontlines to protect our livelihood.”

Dickwad sputters. “The Midwinter Gala is the cornerstone of the holiday season—“

Gabriel stands and the advisors all hurry to push back their chairs and do the same. “We have settled the budget.” And then he turns to exit the room.

Unfortunately, nothing new has been settled. He stands alone in the hall outside the Court’s cabinet room and rubs his face. Something falls to the floor and he pulls this hand away. Pepper stands some distance away, mortified. A book has fallen from her hands and landed on the echoing marble.

“Hello, Pepper,” he greets and the child gives a hasty bow before scooping up the book.

“Prince Aziraphale said I could read this, honest!” she explains, quickly and apologetically.

The King approaches her with a smile. “Indeed. My brother does love his books. What has he lent you?” He leans over to see the title. Embarrassed, she turns it so he may better see the shiny letters against the slim cloth cover. “Hmm. ‘A Royal Lady’s Primer: A Guide to the Art of Reading’. Is this your first book?”

Pepper looks down at the cover and strokes it. “I learned my letters in the temple, Sire. Not much else.”

“Which temple was that?” he asks and gestures for her to walk with him. They turn toward the royal apartments.

“Selene’s, Your Majesty, here in the capital.”

The court sees the King coming and all bow and give nonsensical pomp. Guards open the doors before them to enter his chambers. Pepper is a little uneasy, but Gabriel leads her in.

“Your mother served in the temple then too?” he asks.

Pepper nods. “She died of the white plague. She wanted me to serve the goddess as a liturgy knight,” she stumbles over the word “liturgy” but carries on. “She named me Pippin Galadriel Moonchild. I didn’t want to be a child of the moon, so when she died I ran away.”

"This is a mouthful," the King agrees. "You came here to serve instead?" The girl nods. "What would you say to a change in your career?"

The guards part the doors into his and Beelze’s private study. Beelze is seated before their easel mixing paint.

“Bee, sweetheart,” he calls and they stand with a slight wobble. They glare at their own feet as if they've been disloyal. The King reaches out to steady them and they pat his hand.

“Dizzy, I think,” they note.

Pepper runs to pour them a glass of water and holds it out to the Prince Consort. The King wraps an arm around Beelze’s waist protectively as they drink.

“Thank you,” they say to Pepper. Pepper smiles but grips her primer nervously.

“Sweetheart, I’ve thought of a solution to your household issue.” He grins at them. “Pepper, Brian, Adam, and Wensleydale shall begin their duties with you.”

Pepper’s mouth falls open but it quickly morphs into a grin. Beelze leans against the King. “We’ll have to fight Crowley. He wants Adam as a page.”

The King shrugs, “He can make his argument later. Adam will still need to know his letters to be a squire.”

Pepper is clearly jealous of the potential for page duties, but Beelze dismisses it all. “Right, let’s get those miscreants up here. We’ll need to set up their rooms, get them clothes,” and their voice carries on with their list. They are already in motion.

The King leaves them to it. He lets their words roll over him. Pepper is excited to help, so he slips over to his desk and begins to sort through his pile of correspondence.

The first letter on top is from an oracle. “Strange,” he mumbles and splits the wax open. He didn’t know that prophesies came in the mail.

_Sire,_

_Hear me:_

_Either your gentle brother’s great town be sacked by armed hosts,_

_Or, if be not that, a storm of great power, that brews over the depthless sea, will lay low the whole land of your reign._

_Great King and your kinsmen must decide if you will war with marching feet or the mighty raining winds for you can only overcome one._

_The Pythia_

The King stares at these words then rereads them.

“Bee,” he calls and holds the paper out to them. They’re in the middle of settling Pepper and her primer, but they come with a roll of the eyes.

"Yes, dear," they mock as they take the letter from him. They skim the parchment, then with wide eyes, reread it.

“A storm?” they ask and step out onto the balcony. The steady wind of the morning has brought lines of gray clouds. The sea churns with tall, brown waves and whitecaps. They look in the distance. “A typhoon?” they ask, uncertainly.

Pepper inhales sharply and Gabriel rises from his desk. He smiles gently at the child. “Why don’t you go back to the kitchens and check in on your friends. We’ll need everyone to begin to put the castle into preparation for a storm. The Prince Consort and I will be along shortly to help—we need to tell the people first.”

Pepper gives a hasty curtsy and rushes out, her primer abandoned on the chaise. Beelze traces the words of the prophecy with their finger.

“What do we do?” they ask. “Let the Eastern Gate fall to Michael or let a hurricane level the country?”

“The harvest will be ruined by intense rains,” Gabriel thinks aloud. “Not to mention any flooding. Where would the people go if the sea walls fail? The Western Districts might survive the flooding, but their crops would fail. The South would be destroyed.”

Beelze looks out and notes the large waves. “But Michael’s troops will destroy that border. They’ll kill innocent people. It’s a certainty.”

“Which do you advise?” he asks his consort. They look at him in alarm but try to settle their emotions before deciding.

They blink then rest their hand across their middle where their child grows. “Michael’s attack is certain. The typhoon is not. We should arm the Eastern Gate.”

Gabriel nods slowly. “And if the storm comes first, then Michael will surely follow it and destroy all that’s left.”

He sinks back into his desk chair and takes up quill and ink to write to Aziraphale. Beelze stands behind him with their hand on his shoulder.

“Will you tell them of the prophecy?” they ask.

Gabriel weighs his options. “I feel I must.”

Beelze nods. “I’m going to go sort out the children’s new room. And, my prince, at some time, I’d like to change Uriel’s room into a nursery.”

The King touches the nib of his quill to the parchment. “We’ll empty it out during the storm. I will keep us occupied.”

They nod and exit into their receiving room. Gabriel writes and does not enjoy the task.


	6. Fields to Cross

The camp is not what Crowley expected. It’s disorganized and loud. Tents line the field in zigzag lines. Horses, held on picket lines, graze. Campfires smoke. The cooks’ wagons circle at the base of a lazy slope and seem to expel all their goods. Soldiers mingle or clean their boots.

Temple Grove is ancient. Wide-based fir trees ring marble shrines to hundreds of deities. Crowley leans back and marvels at their towering height. Aziraphale selects the ground under one such of these giant trees for their campsite. From the opening in their tent, Crowley can see the little marble structures. The largest is similar in size to a modest mausoleum. The smallest are little obelisks. Pebble paths cut between the shrines and soldiers stroll between them seeking out the god of their choice. Many wait to pay homage to the gods of war, of soldiers, of travel, and of victory.

Aziraphale putters about the tiny a-frame canvas tent. He’s removed his boots and set them by the entrance. He shuffles around the small space in socks. The tanned leather floor dampens the sound of his walking. The tent is tall enough for him to stand up in, but Crowley has to hunch his shoulders or his hair brushes the center beam. They could stand shoulder-to-shoulder, but their arms would brush the sides of the tent.

Crowley pulls off his boots and lines them next to the prince’s. He moves into the tend to their bedding. The cot assembly looks straightforward and he snaps the footboard together quickly. The prince mirrors him at the headboard. It doesn’t take them long to slide the side rails into place and lock the slats into them. Crowley unrolls the mattress—it’s rather like a giant pillow that’s been cinched into a roll with a belt. Aziraphale tosses a pile of blankets and furs on top and waves it away.

“We’ll look to it later.” He holds out his hand and Crowley reaches to take it. “Thank you, my darling, for coming. Even if you rode back to the capital now, this journey would have been better for having you along this far.”

Crowley steps into the prince’s arms and presses his forehead to his white-blond hair. “Took you long enough to see things my way, angel.”

The prince chuckles softly before turning his head and kissing his lover’s neck, which draws a shiver from the consort. Outside, beyond the flaps of their tent, someone laughs. Crowley smells the delicate waft of tobacco. He leans into Aziraphale and sniffs him—leather, sweat from the sun, horse all mix together. He smiles. They’re in their own cocoon here, far from the world it seems. The day’s steady wind makes ripples on the side of the tent.

Crowley leans down and captures the prince’s mouth in a kiss. Aziraphale sighs with delight and tightens his hold on his lover.

“I’ve missed you,” Crowley admits. Aziraphale kisses him again and hums in agreement.

As if his legs suddenly give out, Crowley drops to his knees in front of the prince with a grin.

“Let me show you?” he asks and reaches out and unknots Aziraphale’s riding breeches and slides the fabric down to his knees.

“Crowley, my dear, we may be interrupted—“

The companion ignores him and he frees the prince’s cock from his pants.

“They’ll wait. Let me show you how good I can take care of you, my love. You’ve forgotten,” he says, smooth as silk. He takes Aziraphale’s quickly-hardening cock into his mouth and licks at the ridge of veins on his underside.

Aziraphale gives a sudden and unbidden moan and nearly tips backward onto the bed. His hands scramble for purchase on the headboard to hold himself somewhat upright. Crowley focuses only on the heat and weight in his mouth. He slides one arm behind the prince and kneads his buttock while he rolls his testicles in his hand and presses his perineum with his middle finger. He sucks and licks. The prince keens and his hips jerk forward. Crowley groans and sucks him deeper.

Someone approaches their tent. Crowley hears their footsteps in the pine needles. Aziraphale panics and tries to pull away, but Crowley latches on, this time wrapping both arms around his waist and taking the prince deep into his throat. He savors the iron heat of his partner.

“Prince Aziraphale?” someone calls and Aziraphale gives a horrified moan. Crowley smirks around his girth. “Shall I come in?”

Somehow he finds his voice, “I’ll be out in just a moment, please.” The advancing footsteps pause. Crowley bobs his head. “Could I meet you by the wagons?” the prince pants in alarm.

“I’ll meet you there, then, Your Royal Highness?” the advisor asks, his voice already fading as he paces away. It’s all the permission the consort needs to redouble his efforts. The prince is close, he can tell, and Crowley’s tongue is so talented. His consort hums and Aziraphale’s comes.

“If you’d be so kind?” Aziraphale squeaks as Crowley continues to suck and bob on his softening and sensitive cock. “Enough, my dear. Enough. You’ve made your point.”

Crowley presses his cheek to Aziraphale’s trembling leg. “What? That you’ve ignored me so long that you popped off like a boy seeing a breast for the first time?”

Aziraphale lets his weight fall against the side of their mattress. He looks blissed out. Crowley licks his lips in delight. 

“You are beautiful,” Aziraphale whispers, his eyes roving over Crowley’s face. He leans forward, almost drunk on afterglow, and brushes his thumb across Crowley’s lower lip. “I’d stay and see to you if I could.” He releases Crowley’s face and offers his hand.

Crowley takes it and Aziraphale pulls him up, only instead of helping him stand, he tugs his partner onto the bed beside him. Crowley collapses next to him with a giggle. He leads over and kisses the prince.

“They’re waiting for you,” he reminds. Aziraphale kisses him lazily.

“So they are.” He deepens their kisses. Then, regretfully, he pulls away. “Come along then.” He tucks himself back into his beeches and laces them up efficiently.

Crowley slithers off the bed and stuffs his feet into his boots. The knife there scraps his ankle. He frowns but does not call Aziraphale’s attention to it. He is also putting on his boots. Crowley replaces his veil before stepping out of the tent flap. The prince is a step behind him, securing his sword to his belt. They walk in tandem toward the line of wagons.

The wind blows the advisors’ words toward them.

“—I wish I’d known that mistresses were invited on this voyage!” one jests and the others laugh uproariously.

“I’d have stopped and picked up a trollop too!” jokes another. Aziraphale’s jaw locks. Crowley wraps his hand around the prince’s wrist and gives it a squeeze.

“The prince is trotting him around to show him off as a prize! Riding side-saddle like he’s a proper spouse,” at this, the general speaking sneers and turns toward them. He gives a little wave as if he’s pleased that they are approaching. He is clearly unaware that his words are audible. “The prince looks properly fucked out too. _Jesus_ , we’ve had camp followers before, but this is—“

“Enough,” Aziraphale growls. He’s standing at his full height with a ramrod-straight back. It makes Crowley’s heart race with attraction. He slides his hand down from Aziraphale’s wrist and into his hand. “How dare you speak about my hand-fasted spouse in that manner! And with the audacity to do it to my face? I cannot decide if you’re really that asinine, or if you’re hoping I’ll send you home for your impertinence.”

He stares at each advisor in turn but glares at length at the general who they interrupted. The advisors shift uncomfortably, but the general just stares brazenly back at Aziraphale.

“I’m glad that we were able to call attention to how distracted you are, Your Royal Highness, about this battle,” the general says, trying to save face.

Crowley squeezes his hand and tries to disengage their hold. Aziraphale tightens his hold instead.

“Oh, you mean the battle that _I_ have been planning and executing, General Abaddon? Because my intel suggests that you spent last night with Commander Harrison’s wife, _not_ that anyone is keeping tabs.” Aziraphale looks to each of the six advisors circling there.

They might have thought they were the sharks, but it’s apparent to Crowley that they’ve discovered they are just the chum. He ducks his head so that his veil hides his smirk. His clever angel can easily play the demon. It delights him. Harrison glares daggers at Abaddon, while Aziraphale looks on, with feigned detachment.

“We hoped to confer on the speed of our travels and number of stops,” General Pwcca opens, hoping to draw the conversation back to their counsel. “We believe it will be traveling too fast and we’d hoped to make a detour to the Northern District for the wild blueberry harvest—“

General Mastema and Commanders Harrison and Cortese all complain about the stupidity of such a plan. Generals Abaddon and Tchort each encourage the stop, claiming the pace will allow the soldiers to rest before battle.

Crowley looks between the two groups in complete disbelief. He interrupts them all, completely baffled, “Michale and Azrael march on our lands at this moment and you want to go berry picking?”

Mastema, Harrison, and Cortese are appeased, but Tchort snipes. “I will not have a harlot leading our troops!”

Aziraphale’s sword is free of its scabbard and against the general’s throat before the others can react. The prince is perfectly still and his blade reflects the dim sunlight.

“Pray tell me, General Tchort, would you speak so coarsely to any others of your betters’ spouses?” his voice is deceptively soft. “For I find I cannot believe that such uncouth talk would be welcome in the parlors of fine people.” Tchort gulps but does not reply. Perspiration glistens on his forehead.

“Your Royal Highness,” Cortese attempts to intercede, but Crowley ends the stalemate. He reaches up and lays his hand across the handle of Aziraphale’s blade.

“It’s nothing I’ve not heard before, angel. You need this moron to lead your troops.” He slips his other hand onto Aziraphale’s waist and drags him back a step. The prince slowly lowers his sword, but only until the blade is at chest-height. He points it slowly at each of the advisors.

“Tread lightly, gentlemen,” Aziraphale warns. He slides his blade back into his scabbard. “The King intends for us to reach the Eastern Gate in six days. We will make it in five at the most—“

“Your Highness, that is—“

“—madness!”

“—The convoy will not travel at such a speed!”

“Enough!” Aziraphale interrupts them. “Enough.” He sighs and begins to inform them, “You know that we are already behind; our enemy marched three days ago and will be in possession of Michael’s former lands in two days hence. Our troops will likely be retreating to the Eastern Gate. There are not enough of them to hold the Eastern kingdom and I have given them to order to hold our border. We must arrive soon as reinforcements.”

The advisors look to one another in alarm. “You did not share this with us,” Harrison begins, but Aziraphale holds up his hand.

“I have. You have a memo after memo about this. You all chose instead to focus on reports about Azrael’s fighting style and I used your distraction to put my own plans into action. The King is aware of each step and supports them.”

Crowley’s veil and skirt whip in the wind. “My prince,” he begins and everyone looks at him in surprise, “you should take the cavalry and ride ahead. You can fortify the Eastern Gate for when the platoons retreat.”

Cortese hums thoughtfully and Mastema nods. “We might also split the convoy,” Crowley continues, looking only at his lover, “with a faster-moving march for some and the heavier supplies taking more time?”

Suddenly Pwcca is on board, or is until Aziraphale amends, “You’re suggesting a straight route, however, without time for anyone to check on the berry harvest.”

They break down into a bickering argument then. Crowley sighs and leans against the nearest wagon. He watches Aziraphale’s frustration and anger, then lets his eyes drift out to the shrines. People wander through the rows, some stopping to pray.

Far in the back, a woman in white sits on a broken obelisk. She is looking directly at Crowley. His heart stops beating and his breath catches.

That is no ordinary woman.

“Pardon me, angel,” he whispers, “I am needed in prayer.” And Crowley leaves his side without waiting for an escort or permission.

The shrines closest to the road are well-known deities. As Crowley walks to the back of the field, the gods and goddesses are less recognized. Their shrines are not well-tended. Béḃinn’s shrine was once a marble facade obelisk. Now, its top is broken and the marble crumbles. Moss and ferns grow all around the stone base and weeds limit where he can step to get close.

He draws the blade from his boot and begins to hack at the tall weeds. He pulls the moss free. Past rains have left rivets through the dirt on its white surface. Crowley kneels and pulls his veil from his hair. With it, he wipes the obelisk until the gray and brown spots are less visible.

When he’s finished, he feels Béḃinn’s presence. Time slows and shimmers around the edges. He bows forward.

“My lady,” he greets, with a waver to his voice. “I’ve missed you."

_My little serpent_ , she replies and leans down to touch the sigil at his temple, _I am always near._

He chuckles and isn’t surprised to see tears dripping off his nose. She squats down before him and cradles his chin in her hands.

_This has not been an easy road for you._ He laughs in reply. Her eyes shine and she leans forward to kiss his mouth. The world around them is silent, but in that touch, the universe opens to Crowley. Her word loop through him.

_The road will not be easy yet, my little pet._ He slides from his body and hovers high above them. He can see himself, the caravan, the wider countryside, the sea, the borders of their land, and the starry expanse above them.

_The typhoon comes._ He sees that great storm that blows toward them. Then she guides him to the Eastern Gate and they look down. There are more troops and more weapons of war. They’re clearly outgunned and outmanned by Azrael. _The Enemy comes._

Then they’re standing, facing one another, in a large mirrored room. Crowley can see himself reflected like a tunnel.

_I have not given you easy choices. I fear I must do the same again._

“I am your servant, my lady,” Crowley states and aims to bow, but she holds him on his feet.

_You are my knight, little snake. I did not say that in the way that the King has honored you, with title and sword. I am joined with others as we battle in a cosmic game of chess—you are my knight. I was not sure you wanted to play the warrior, but you sought my advice and removed Uriel. She was the bishop on the board. We are now into the last moves, and you must choose where you will play out the rest of the match._

Crowley’s stomach drops and his heart flutters. “You said that whenever Aziraphale and I worked together we would flourish."

_If I continue my metaphor, then Aziraphale is my rook. He has more power and more versatility. He can play across any field._

“I cannot. You have a specific role in mind for me.”

_Indeed. The knight plays best in enemy territory and in close moves. My little serpent, you already go to the Eastern Gate, but you must convince your prince to keep you there, even if he goes on._

“He and I came to an agreement—“

_Crowley. Heed me!_ His eyes widen and he hits his knees. She has never risen her voice at him. She swirls around him, both corporal and not, more like gray smoke.

_Michael has the blessings and favor of Morrigan. She is Morrigan’s Queen._

Crowley’s heart races in his wrist and throat. “She will be victorious?”

_That depends. I have brokered a deal. It depends on your choices, my sweet serpent. A storm brews and will either bring destruction to Michael or your nation. If you hold up the convoy until the typhoon blows over, then the Eastern Gate and its cities will be pillaged, but Michael will be destroyed. If you hurry the troops and save the border to win the war, then the hurricane will flood the country—ruining the capital and all the country’s grain._

He lets his head fall forward and begins to hyperventilate. “I can’t… such…I’m a dancer! I…not innocent…kids!”

She touches his hair and it feels like morning dew. _My little serpent, I asked you if you would be the warrior once._

“That was only my life,” he croaks.

She waves her hand and faces appear in the mirrors. _Then you deceive yourself._

He expects to see Uriel and Aziraphale, but Beelze, Gabriel, and Adam also spin there. He recognizes some other faces but does not know their names.

_What will it be, little snake? Border towns in exchange for Michael’s defeat? Victories in battle traded for famine? Make your choice, my knight, for all the other pieces in play move off this decision._

“Great, so no pressure,” he wipes his eyes. “If I sacrifice the Eastern Gate, Aziraphale may never forgive me. If I let the country die of starvation, I’m not sure I can forgive myself.”

_You’ve made your choice then._

“I suppose it’s like my angel says, sometimes duty is about the ‘greater good of the people’.”

_The storm will move quickly onto you and then slowly over the convoy. Michael will take the Eastern Gate. When the reinforcements arrive, it will be with the typhoon. Convince my rook to move in the weather, it will secure his win._

Crowley nods and wipes at his eyes. “You said that I need to stay at the Eastern Gate and that I can play in enemy territory…”

_You will be captured, yes, so that my rook will take the Morrigans' queen. Do not fear, little snake. Remember, I will never be far from your side._

Trembling, Crowley asks, “Can I have your blessing, my beautiful lady? Convincing the prince may take it.”

She gives a chuckle, warm like a crackling fire. Then she rests her hands on his head and he feels magic flow over him. Suddenly, he’s transported back to the field and the broken shrine. He feels the tingle of her lips on his.

He opens his eyes and time moves around him. She is gone.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale shouts and he runs up the pebble path, panting. “Crowley!” He nearly tackled the consort and wraps him tightly in his arms. “You were gone. One moment, you were there, then gone. I told you not to go without a guard!”

“Easy, angel, it’s not what you think. Béḃinn visited me,” he soothes. Aziraphale clutches him to his chest, then leans back and looks down Crowley’s front.

“Yes, I see. It certainly accounts for the attire.”

Confused, the consort looks down. His purple abaya and veil are gone. Béḃinn has replaced them with travel attire: black riding breeches and matching robe, a wine-red v necked tunic, tall, black boots, a lace headscarf, and sunglasses. Aziraphale traces the embroider serpent on the sleeves of the robe, then touches the one on Crowley’s headscarf.

“What did she need?” he asks.

Crowley weighs his words. “She gave me a choice.”

Down on the road, a messenger arrives in a flurry of dust and speaks to Commander Cortese. He gestures toward the prince and both he and Crowley watch the young rider approach.

“A message from the King, Your Royal Highness,” the messenger declares with a bow. He hands the sealed letter to Aziraphale and takes several steps away.

The prince breaks the wax seal and shakes the parchment open. He reads it quickly and frowns.

“We are to ride quickly to outrun a storm,” he notes before handing the paper to Crowley. Crowley doesn’t read it, he just waves the messenger away.

Aziraphale quarks an eyebrow at him in confusion. Once the boy is out of earshot, Crowley explains, “I know, angel. That’s part of my choice. If we outrun the storm, the typhoon will lead to the starvation and destruction of our country.”

Aziraphale fidgets as he looks at the parchment, “What does she advise? It sounds like it’s the storm or Michael attacking the Eastern villages.”

“She wants use to get caught in the storm and let Michael ravage the Eastern Gate,” Crowley says through a tight throat. Aziraphale starts.

“She wants that?” he nearly shouts.

“All the grain crops will be destroyed in the hurricane otherwise. She promised that our Eastern border would never be challenged again. We just have to move slowly, angel. Send people berry picking,” he says with distaste.

“This is what the goddess wants? Innocent people to be raped and murdered, Crowley?” he looks away, micro-expressions flitting across his face. They make his lips move minutely and his nose scrunch. “There are schools there and markets. Farms. These are not military, these are citizens.”

“I know. She said it was a cosmic game of chess—“

“And the border folks are her pawns?”

Crowley rubs the back of his neck and sniffles, “I suppose so.” He reaches into his pocket and finds a handkerchief there. He wipes his runny nose.

“Doesn’t this bother you? Or has she hardened your heart—“

“Don’t you dare, angel. She made me choose! I had to choose—your beloved locals or the entire country! What would you have me do?” Crowley waves his hands as he talks.

Aziraphale still looks away from him. “I would have us ride and keep to the plan.”

Crowley parses his words, “Michael is the Morrigans' queen.” Aziraphale shuts his eyes. “She has the goddesses of war’s blessing. We will be victorious, but only with a sacrifice. I choose the Eastern Gate. If I was wrong, then we need to tell our Lady.”

Aziraphale holds up his hand to stop him from talking. “It’s done. We’ll ride slowly and get caught in the storm.” And he walks away toward the road and wagons, anger lining his stiff shoulders.

Crowley sighs, then bows to the obelisk, kisses his fingers, and brushes these to his sigil. He considers following Aziraphale but instead heads for their tent. He kicks off his boots and tugs off his headscarf, coat, and glasses. He arranges the pile of furs and blankets and then dives into them like a child.

“I don’t even like chess,” he grumbles as he tucks his eyes under his arm and tries to sleep.


	7. Change is on the Wind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. I hope 11,000 words will make up for it.

The wind is steady. Tree limbs bow and shake, while leaves show their lighter-colored undersides. The sky is blanketed in gray clouds, but lower, wispier clouds race by in lines. The smell of rain is on the wind.

Bentley is uneasy. All the horses are. The storm is nipping at their heels and it’s only a matter of time before the rains begin. Aziraphale cannot imagine the sting that will come from the rain on these gusts—and the wind has not reached above twenty miles per hour yet. The worst is not even in sight yet. His brain loops. Where can he protect his troops?

Deep in his thoughts, it takes several calls to gain his attention.

“Your consort,” a nearby squire directs, waving backward in the convoy, “he’s been calling for you, Your Royal Highness.”

Aziraphale turns in his saddle. Crowley is hanging off the back end of a wagon. One hand holds the nearest wagon bow and one foot still inside the bed, but otherwise, he’s a human flag, waving frantically and calling for him. The wind blows his hair and headscarf into his face, but he keeps waving.

Aziraphale guides Bentley around and they trot into the wind. The convoy nods at him as he passes. There’s the guard to the front, soldiers who switch out the leading every hour or so. Then, the wagons with the advisors and their supplies. Everyone inside the first one appears asleep, minus the driver. Then more troops. Aziraphale nods to them all. Then he passes supply carts and the first of the cook’s wagons. Crowley still hangs out the back of a supply wagon, but he’s stopped waving. He just watches Aziraphale approach.

They did not talk the night before. In fact, when Aziraphale returned to their tent after his “patrol” of the camp, Crowley was already asleep. The prince had turned immediately and gone for dinner. When he returned, Crowley had not moved. In the night, Crowley reached for him. Angry, but unable to talk about it, Aziraphale rolled away from him. It was not a large bed, but, even still, the consort did not seek him out again.

The prince pulls up alongside the back of the wagon and lets Bentley match the slower pace of these pack horses. Crowley settles both feet back inside the wagon bed, but ducks down so that his head doesn’t brush the cover. Inside, Crowley has made a nest for himself. He’s the only person, besides the driver, in the wagon. Aziraphale frowns. He’d asked the advisors to find a place for Crowley to ride. Seeing him tucked in among the soldiers’ tents and supply crates is not what he had in mind.

The consort seems to have made himself useful, however. He’s also managed to load all of their personal items with him and he’s opened a number of Aziraphale’s books from their crates.

“Angel,” Crowley greets before bending down so he can grab one of the books. “I think I found someplace to wait out the storm.”

Aziraphale quarks an eyebrow. “You’ve read my thoughts, then,” he admits. “The best I’ve come up with is the temple in the next village.”

Crowley shakes his head, “That wouldn’t provide shelter for the animals or the wagons. We might lose more days for repairs—“

Aziraphale’s anger, which has simmered low in his belly since the previous evening, sparks, “I thought we were meant to lose days so that the innocent people on the border could be slaughtered?”

Crowley looks stricken. He crouches down and cradles the atlas he’s lifted to his knees. He traces the page he has open with his fingertips but does not answer.

Aziraphale huffs an angry sigh. “What have you found?” he asks indignantly.

“A cave—it was used for mining work,” he begins. He looks uncertain and Aziraphale waits. Bentley flicks his ears back to the prince as if suggesting that he had better add to the conversation.

“Anyway, it looks wide enough that we can get everyone in.”

Aziraphale nods. “How far away are we from it?”

Crowley turns the atlas so that the prince can better see it, but all the wagon’s jostling makes it impossible to read. “Just tell me how far, Crowley,” Aziraphale says with a sigh.

The consort bites his lower lip. “I’m not exactly sure where we are. I haven’t… I can’t really see back here and I’ve been in the books…”

Aziraphale nearly sighs again, mostly at his own attitude. “We just passed the hamlet of Lake Hamira.”

Crowley studies the map and traces their route with his index finger. The black-stoned ring that the prince gifted him shines in the gray light.

“Not far now, about two kilometers? The road goes up in elevation, it looks like, but we’ll take the mining road North along the stream.”

Aziraphale nods. “Come on, then, let’s scout it out.” He draws Bentley forward so that the saddle is even with the back of the wagon. Crowley sets the atlas back in his little nest of bedding and steps out onto the runner board along the back of the wagon bed. He seems unsure.

“Into the saddle, behind me,” the prince commands as he hitches himself forward in the saddle. Crowley is not graceful in this movement, but Bentley seems to forgive him as he hops from the wagon onto the horse. The consort gives a grunt of effort before trying to settle his legs behind Aziraphale’s. It’s not the comfortable ride from the day before, with enough space for them each, but it will suit them for this short distance. It’s easier on the horse, for one. Aziraphale spurs Bentley on and they ride toward the front of the convoy again. He indicates to three of the guards with his gloved hand.

“With me!” and they pull out of formation and ride behind him. Crowley wraps his arms tighter around the prince’s waist as they pick up speed. He presses his chest into Aziraphale’s back.

“I’m sorry I’ve upset you,” he says, his voice quiet. “I don’t want those people to be hurt, my prince. I did not know what to do. I thought about what you said about your duty and how you made decisions for the ‘greater good’—“

Aziraphale interrupts, “You told me that I should put you above my duty.”

He can hear Crowley roll his eyes. “I said I would like to feel that you put me above your duty once in a while. Anyway, I thought I was doing what you’d advise me to do—what you would do in that situation.”

Aziraphale stiffens. What would he do given those choices? According to his brother’s letter, he believed that the storm might pass—prophesy be damned. He also believed that Michael was a greater threat. On the other hand, who is he to dismiss a personal visit from a goddess?

“Why did she make you choose?” he asks, suddenly feeling an idea build in his brain.

Crowley shifts and Bentley snorts. “Béḃinn said that this is a chess game. I think between her and Morrigan—whatever I chose would determine the final moves.”

The road is beginning to rise and over the horizon, Aziraphale can make out rolling hills.

“You’re the one who has to end the war,” Crowley says, but his face is turned into Aziraphale’s back so the words are muffled. Aziraphale stiffens.

“Crowley, did you offer up the Eastern Gate so that I would be safe?” his voice is laced with more than anger—it’s fury.

“No,” Crowley admits and the prince tries to tramp down his anger. “Béḃinn told me I need to stay with you.” His voice dies away and he shifts behind the prince, unsure. “I’m going to be captured, Aziraphale.”

Bentley nearly spooks when Aziraphale yells, “What?” His word rings off the top of the hill they crest. The other soldiers escorting them look nervous. This is the only part of the conversation that they’ve heard.

“She said the knight, the chess piece, plays best in enemy territory. She said the rook, you, have more versatility.” Crowley holds very still and the prince is not even sure that he is breathing.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, is breathing like billows. He can barely see straight. This is his worst nightmare confirmed. “You are going _home_. You are going back to the palace—“

“In the storm, angel?” Crowley asks, but he’s deceptively calm. His words are laden with passion, even if his voice is pitched low. “This is how it plays out: as a stupid game! They’re playing _chess_ , Aziraphale. The goddesses are playing chess and she chose us to be her pieces. If we refuse to play then the war is lost and your brother will be uncrowned. This is our _duty_.”

Aziraphale nearly stops them and dismounts to give Crowley the tongue-lashing he deserves. This is exactly why he should have left the companion with his sibling. They climb another hill and, just over the crest is a stream. Instead, he leans into every lesson he’s ever learned about dealing with politics and tries to measure his words.

“You cannot have it both ways,” he growls. “You cannot berate me for not doing my duty and then parrot my words back at me when it suits you.”

Crowley begins to argue, but Aziraphale holds up his hand. “Enough. We’ll discuss this later. You,” he points to a soldier, “build a cairn that will help the troops take the turn. We’re headed up to those caves.”

The soldier dismounts and collects rocks to make the trail sign. Aziraphale spurs Bentley on. Crowley is silent, but his fingers tangle in the prince’s jacket. Aziraphale ignores him and looks around at the forest that lines the creek. The stream weaves up the hill before them and they find a wide place to forge it. Bentley splashes through the shallow water. Another soldier stops to note this with another rock cairn. Trees are dense here and the winds rattle the leaves. Deer race ahead of them and disappear into the glen. Crowley is watchful. The deep part of Aziraphale who adores this man beyond logic wants to study his awe of the natural world. The rest of him still simmers with irritation.

Then the hill opens up into a large cave mouth. It’s wide enough for six wagons from tail to tongue. Aziraphale dismounts and holds Bentley’s reigns so Crowley can slide off the horse’s side. He stokes the horse’s neck once he’s on the ground.

Aziraphale bristles when the horse doesn’t glare like he always has. Of course, the horse is willing to forgive Crowley. He ties his reigns to a tree and ventures into the cavern. The mining work has long stopped, but the company left evidence of their labor. The floor of the cavern is smooth and hard-packed. The longest stalactites have been clipped short, and stalagmites have been leveled off, as to reduce tripping hazards. Some sort of wooden structure lines the right side of the cave. The cavern is deep but narrows toward the mining tunnels. It will provide some shelter from the storm, but not as much as they’d hoped.

“Right,” Aziraphale says as he takes stock, “we’re going to need to build walls.” He turns to the last soldier he ordered to join them. “When the troops arrive, take thirty men and fell trees. Let’s mark out where the barriers will need to be constructed.”

And he leads the girl off to mark these. Crowley stands with the two horses, shifting his weight uneasily. Aziraphale does not have time to guide him.

Instead, once the other two soldiers arrive, he leads them about, marking areas of camp. The stables will be closer to the mining tunnels, the tents nearest to the stone walls, the wagons will be parked behind the barricade, and the fires clearly placed. He gives the order for them to begin collecting firewood.

He looks back to where Crowley was. The four horses are untacked and tied to a picket line. Their saddles are lined neatly on a stone. Crowley is nowhere to be seen.

A moment of panic bubbles in Aziraphale. It wars with his anger and his desire to protect. Before he can decide which emotion to follow, he hears the roll of wagon wheels. Crowley wanted duty, so he’ll do his duty—no matter what his heart says.

He spends the next hours directing troops into their specific spaces and tasks. The farriers and blacksmiths immediately build their fires, ordering more wood from the tree line. The heat of their fires warms the damp cave. The cooks line their wagons and begin to unpack their loads. Soldiers scurry about felling trees, driving stakes into the soft earth, hauling firewood and water, or tending horses. Someone orders the swift building of a fence for the stable area and many hands rush to help. Voices echo off the cavern walls, interspersed with the clang of hammers on anvils. The wind gusts bend the trees and the rain begins like someone has begun to dump buckets on the land.

In the strange echos, Aziraphale hears the complaints. Nearby he hears:

“Great, we get to sleep in bat shit.”

“It’s called guano, you idiot.”

“ _Great_ , we get to sleep in guano shit.”

“You’re more of an idiot than I thought.”

Then from another corner:

“If the water table rises, we’ll drown. What was the prince thinking?”

“Right next to a stream too. And caves aren’t exactly known to be dry.”

“At least we’re out of the rain?”

“For now. We’ll be swimming soon, enjoy your dry boots now.”

And then, from behind him:

“This is a miracle! Fresh fish!”

“I just wanted to be helpful,” says a beloved voice. Aziraphale turns, ignoring the other complaints to see a very wet Crowley standing by the cook’s wagons. “I got what I could. I know it’s not enough for everyone—“

“Nonsense, this is nearly forty fish. We shall make a good stew! Eh, Marcel? Yes, _bouillabaisse_! We have some bread?”

Aziraphale drifts closer and watches the rainwater drip off Crowley into a puddle around his feet. He’s barefoot and without a cloak. His headscarf is missing and his hair is plastered to his skull. His suit sticks to him like a second skin.

“Aye, Robert, we have bread, but not enough. Think we can get it to rise in a cave?” Chef Marcel asks.

Chef Robert shrugs, “I suppose we shall see! Thank you again, Master Crowley.”

And Crowley steps away. Then Aziraphale can see the slippery fish and eels that he has brought. He trails Crowley until he can see that he’s headed for their tent. When did Crowley assemble their tent? Did he do it by himself? Anger drifts away as he sees the wet footprints his partner leaves in the dirt.

“My darling?” he calls and Crowley’s steps falter. He turns and faces Aziraphale. “I did not know you could fish.”

Crowley looks uncomfortable. “I used a net. Not much skill required.”

Aziraphale stands at his side and sizes him up. “You’re soaked through.”

Crowley shrugs, “It’s raining.”

“Let’s get you dried off.” He opens the tent flap and stands in shock. He steps back and looks at the exterior of the tent again, then back inside the flap.

Crowley chuckles and steps past him inside. He dusts his feet off on the side of the tent. “I think she’s showing off,” he notes.

Indeed, Béḃinn is. The tent is easily three times larger on the inside than it was. Their bed has doubled in width and there is now a desk with two chairs and a sofa.

“I put the rails together and tied on the floor,” Crowley says, shucking his wet clothes right there inside the flaps. Aziraphale hurries inside and ties them closed. “I turned around to grab the a-frame, and it was gone. I turned back and the tent was up, completely anchored, and everything unpacked. I have never given so many blessings before in my life. I wonder if she’ll take it down too?” he mummers thoughtfully. Then, louder, he finishes, “The fishing nets were already here, so I went.”

“Without your boots?” Aziraphale asks, glancing down at the dry, clean boots inside the tent. “Or your cloak?”

Crowley stands shivering and naked. He shrugs, “I didn’t want them ruined. The boots are the only shoes I have and the cloak is borrowed.”

Aziraphale hurriedly yanks off his boots and grabs a blanket from the bed. He tosses it around Crowley’s shoulders and tugs him into the tent proper.

“The cloak is yours, now, my dear. My father is long dead and has no use of it.”

Crowley shrugs again and sits on the bed, burrowing deeper into the blanket. “Angel,” he begins, but when he next speaks, his voice has some sort of added weight, as if the word is imbued with meaning, “Aziraphale.”

The prince drops his riding cloak into the desk chair. He knows this conversation will weigh heavily on him as his anger has since the night before. He brushes his hands down his wet cloak and then turns to face the bed.

“Crowley?”

“I’m sorry. I should have,” the consort pulls his wet sunglasses from his equally wet face and holds them in his hand like a talisman, “talked to you first. I’ve broken our agreement that I would stay with you or a guard—not just today. Mostly be agreeing to be captured.”

Aziraphale fidgets, knotting his fingers together across his belly, “You’ll go home before that can happen.” He tries for an assertive tone but fails.

Crowley looks up at him, his yellow eyes naked and filled with longing. “I think she needs me to be captured, angel. I think she knows you’re going to need someone in Michael’s camp.”

Aziraphale starts to pace, but only takes a step before he stops again. “I will not put you into that sort of danger.”

Crowley’s eyes stare at the floor and his voice is rough. “She said I had to force you to make me stay at the Eastern Gate, even if you left me behind.” He unfolds his glasses, then refolds them closed. He repeats the action.

Aziraphale looks away from Crowley’s nervous fidgeting and finds the atlas. He lays the book on the new desk and opens it to the Eastern Gate maps.

“Did she say where I am to leave you like a forgotten toy?” he asks, anger tinting his words. “Because you are the most precious thing to me and what you’re asking me to do is… it seems impossible, my dear.”

Crowley is slow to answer. When he does, his words are intentional. “I am sorry, Aziraphale, for what I said before about duty. I still believe that you should not let it consume you, but I also see your point. Our responsibilities, our _titles_ , can be at direct opposites with our wants.”

Aziraphale does not look away from the map but instead studies the moat that is painted around Fellstone Keep. He has a flash of memory. The feeling of the tules under his feet as he swam in the moat. He remembers the want that lined his stomach—to stay in the cool water. He also remembers his tutor glaring down at him from the drawbridge. Lessons, he’d said, he must attend his lessons.

Crowley makes a sad sound, then the bedding rustles. “I’ll return to the palace as soon as the storm passes if it’s your wish.” He finally says.

Aziraphale turns from the book to see that Crowley has laid down and wrapped the blanket around him. His back is turned to the room and to the prince. The wind gusts outside their tent, as it has been, but this is the first time Aziraphale notices the ripples in the canvas as it billows into the cave. He listens to the sounds of the camp outside their little enclave.

“You’ll be needed at the Keep,” he says finally. “If the enemy forces have attacked the Eastern Gate, then the people will need shelter and care. You will host them and care for them.”

He looks at the line of Crowley’s back, held stiff as he listens to the prince’s words. When he doesn’t respond, Aziraphale shoulders his cloak once more and shoves his feet into his boots.

“Get warmed up. I’ll return soon.” He unties the flaps and exits.

Aziraphale walks around camp. He gives encouragement to those building the palisades across the mouth of the cavern. They’ve staggered the two walls. One is long and covers most of the opening. The trees are still about thirty feet too short, so the wind whips between them and the stone roof. The soldiers dig in additional supports that push the wall toward the wind and weave other tree trunks between those that are vertical.

“It might hold,” one soldier says with a shrug. “Depends on how strong the winds are.”

Aziraphale smiles, encouragingly. “We can hope that the storm will lose some strength across land and that these hills will dampen the wind.”

He knows it’s nearly a lost cause. They’re less than a day and a half’s ride from the capital and this part of the country has always taken a beating during past typhoons. He only prays that the rains do not cause flash flooding inside or around the cave. Even that little creek outside could wash them away.

The soldiers have begun to dig in a second wall. This one is the width of the opening in the longer wall but set back about twenty feet. Satisfied, the prince visits campfires and chats with those resting. He speaks to the blacksmiths, who create strong rods to hammer in all around the wagons.

“Should keep them upright, Your Grace,” one suggests. “It’s the best we can do.”

“And it’s good work,” Aziraphale praises.

The stablehands brush down the horses and some soldiers hammer the final poles in for waddle fencing. Others come behind them and weave saplings in between the poles. It’s rustic, but it should keep the animals contained.

From the mouth of the cave, some people cheer. The prince looks to their direction to see a group of troops return carrying deer carcasses. They’re soaked but joyful. The cooks run out to meet them and carry off the hunt. Soon, crackling cooking fires roast spits of meat and send the scent into the cave. Between those and high heat from the blacksmiths, the humidity in the cave rises and Aziraphale slides his cloak from his back to his arm. He carries it and wishes he had time to return to his tent and leave it there.

The advisors are all inside the large tent. It’s more yurt than a tent, with cords that suspend the canvas sides and wooden floor. It should be his abode, but he’s never liked feeling different than the others. Instead, the yurt is their mission base. Messengers arrived on the road after he sought out the caves. These letters wait for him here.

He reads them slowly while the advisors sit and watch him. Commander Device has written to the prince about the state of the oncoming war.

_Azrael’s troops march into Michael’s old country. They met no resistance. Our troops pulled back to the former seat of government. We have closed the gates to the city._

The advisors fidget and worry. Tchort and Pwcca suggest that they order Device’s troops to retreat to the Eastern Gate and give up on controlling Michael’s land. Harrison, Cortese, and Mastema demand that they give up the cave and march, double speed, for the Eastern Gate. Abanddon decrees that they should order Device to attack. Aziraphale looks back to the opening of the yurt, which is currently rolled up and held open. All around the troops are relaxing as best they can. The fortifications against the storm are complete and they agree (mostly) with the decision to not march in the rain. The wind and rain increase in speed and whistle continuously over the palisades.

“Generals. Commanders. We shall stay until the worst has passed, then we’ll continue East. Azrael’s troops have never been into battle before, so laying siege to the capital might be ineffectual. However, if Michael is leading the offensive, I believe that Commander Device’s troops will be massacred.”

He walks over to the center table and pulls a map of the land toward him. It’s a giant parchment that unrolls to cover much of the tabletop. On one hand, he knows that Anathema could hold the capital. But if they were surrounded on all sides, then no reinforcements could help them. He could pull them back to the Eastern Gate, which will be war-torn. If they came to that gate, they would not stand idly by and watch their countrymen slain. Who knew how many would fall defending those villages?

“We shall order that Commander Device hold her position. We will send in reinforcements from the Eastern Gate—they will outrun the storm.” He decides this as he pulls ink and quill toward him. “Call a rider for me to deliver these messages.”

And he ignores all the shared looks and begins to write. Once the letters are sealed and marked with his pinkie signet ring, he hands them to the messenger.

“Ride safely,” he orders and the boy disappears.

Cortese rubs his neck. “I feel that I should take some troops and ride on, Your Grace.”

Aziraphale turns in his chair to face him. “Oh? Why is that Commander Cortese?”

He considers his words carefully. “We are reinforcing the troops in Michael’s former homeland. We will have a barrier there, but no possible reinforcements until this hurricane blows through. If we leave now, we will be uncomfortable, but I can have troops in place at the Eastern Gate.”

Aziraphale considers this, then looks to the remaining five advisors. “What say you?”

It’s divided. No one directly wants to say it, but there is no correct answer here. And, without the prophecy or Béḃinn’s visit to color their views, it helps the prince. Aziraphale leans forward in his chair and rests his arms on the table.

“Cortese, this is up to you. If you ride, then you ride with only those who are willing to face the storm. If you will not accompany them, then do not send them.”

Commander Cortese stands, bows low, and gives a polite smile. “I always ride into battle with my troops,” and he bows again and is off to find volunteers.

In the end, it is only about eighty soldiers who agree to go. This is more than Aziraphale expected. They pack and march out, newly assigned to Cortese’s command. The rain slicks their hair and cloaks immediately and those riding must urge their horses into the storm. The wind has increased in intensity and the trees sway and creak. The column moves out and marches East.

Aziraphale sees them off and then retires to his tent. He slides his feet free of his boots and takes in the magically larger tent and its lantern light. Crowley is sitting up in bed, still naked and wrapped in a blanket, playing the lyre. It’s a small instrument with muted notes. The blankets are circled around his back and shoulders, leaving him a little cloak of warmth. Aziraphale drops his cloak and tugs his jacket and tunic off. Crowley tracks him through the room with his eyes.

“Cortese has taken some men East,” he notes as he shucks his socks.

“I heard,” Crowley notes and plucks a short harmony. “Do you think they’ll make it in this weather?”

Aziraphale joins his partner on the bed, slowly loosening his breeches.

“I hope so,” he admits and sits across from his partner. “I’ve sent reinforcements from the Eastern Gate to Anathema. Azrael is marching on them.”

Crowley leans down and set his lyre on the floor by the bed. “Michael is with them?”

“We assume,” the prince admits. Then he reaches out and pushes Crowley’s hair over his shoulder. “I’ve been thinking all day about what has been said between us. I owe you an apology similar to what you’ve given to me.”

“No, angel, you don’t need to,” Crowley rushes to say. Aziraphale stokes his hair again, feeling the damp places where it curls.

“I do. I’ve neglected you for weeks and then rowed with you any time we have anything of importance to say.” He scoots closer on the bed, “I need you to balance me, my dear. You are the most precious thing in my heart. You are true to yourself and I love all your parts. If I were to forbid you from following the direction of our Lady Béḃinn then I would be denying that part of you. You are so brave to volunteer to be her knight, my heart’s darling.”

He sags forward and rests his forehead on Crowley’s shoulder and noses at the hallow in his clavicle. Crowley rests his hands flat on the bare skin on Aziraphale’s back. He holds him for a moment, then begins to trace light touches across his spine.

“We were both wrong then.”

Aziraphale hums. “Duty is not something we can toss away, but it’s not the only thing worth saving and protecting.”

“I love you, angel,” he says and the storm picks up its pace suddenly. Something falls over outside and voices raise in alarm.

They sit there together, Crowley holding the prince and rubbing his back. The smell of his skin is intoxicating and Aziraphale kisses at it.

“Mmm, my dear, will you let me have you?” he asks suddenly. It’s an unbidden, yet not unwelcome, question. He’s not sure where the request came from. Only Crowley is nearly immediately undone by it. His back stiffens and his breath shortens.

“Of course, my prince. Always,” he whispers. “I’m yours.”

The storm is howling now and voices worried. Soldiers call one another into tents. Aziraphale stands in preparation of knotting the laces of their own tent flaps tighter. Outside, however, someone calls to him.

“Prince Aziraphale? We need you, ugh, please, umm, Your Royal Highness.”

Crowley is already slipping off their bed. He tosses his tunic to him.

“I’ll be along presently,” the prince says with a sigh. “Terribly sorry, my love.”

Crowley smirks and digs in his beaten up carpet bag. “No worries, angel, I wasn’t prepared for this just yet anyway.” He pulls out a black _abaya_ and tugs it over his head. Once done, he collects something about fist-sized from his carpetbag and adds it to his pocket. “I will miss doing this over a toilet though,” he says to himself.

“My dear?” Aziraphale asks, concerned. Crowley wraps a headscarf over his hair. “I don’t understand?”

Crowley blushes suddenly, then pulls the rubber thing from his pocket again. “Gotta douche, angel.” His blush deepens when he sees the prince’s concern.

“You’ve done that every time… you’ve always been ready for me,” Aziraphale observes. “Thank you, my dear boy, for thinking of me.”

Crowley shrugs like it’s not an issue. “I don’t want an accident in the bedroom. You’re too good for that.”

Aziraphale is paralyzed for a moment, then he hurries across the leather floor to take his companion into his arms. He kisses him deeply and hotly. When they break apart, Crowley is starry-eyed.

“You’re just as good, my darling,” he praises. His voice drops in volume so that the wind roars over it. “You saved me, my dear love. From the very brink of death again and again, but more than that— from my loneliness, from myself. You do not let me get lost in myself. I am sorry if I’ve made you feel anything less than that.” He kisses Crowley’s mouth and nose as his hands stroke under his headscarf to touch his auburn hair.

Crowley is trembling in his arms, “I’m yours, angel; I just want to be good for you. I want you to be proud of me.”

Aziraphale presses his face into Crowley’s headscarf-covered hair. Someone calls for him from beyond the safety of their tent. He cannot break away from Crowley, however. He holds him tight, feeling him shake in his arms, listening to the storm bellow down into the cave. He presses kisses to Crowley’s hair at his temple.

“I am so proud to call you my partner, Crowley.”

Crowley hugs him tightly, but Aziraphale releases him. "Go,” he whispers into his lover’s ear, “get yourself ready for me. I reckon I’ll go sort out whatever nonsense they’ve got to complain about now. I’ll be back shortly.”

He slides away from his consort and tugs on his coat, but he does not stop looking at Crowley. Crowley adjusts his headscarf, but his hands still tremble. He doesn’t look away. They step into their boots, one after the other. They keep looking at each other, both drinking the other in with their eyes. It would be romantic, any other time. At this moment, it’s a more a warm undercurrent or the fresh affirmation of a promise.

They exit the tent and the wind shifts overhead. It’s still not the full strength of the storm, but rain still blasts down. In the campfires, Aziraphale can see the water that blows under the cavern roof. A small man waits for him.

“Prince Aziraphale, General Mastema sent me to get you,” the man stutters as he bows.

“Certainly. What is the trouble?” he asks as they walk. Crowley matches paces with him, looking about for the latrines.

“Oh, um, Your Royal Highness, it’s stupid!” At this Aziraphale raises his eyebrows, but the man continues. “General Pwcca is ordering a squad to be flogged—“

“Flogged?” Crowley yelps. “That’s old fashioned.”

The man shrugs. Aziraphale hums. “Quite. What is their crime?”

“That’s just the thing. The squad approached Commander Harrison about building a flood wall. They’re from this area. They cut down a few trees, dug them in, lined them with rocks—the whole thing. They started on a second one, closer to the mouth of the cave and Pwcca wants them flogged for going out into the storm.”

Crowley listens but gives Aziraphale a nod as he veers off at the cook wagons to get some warm water. Aziraphale follows the man to the palisades where a group has gathered. The rain lashes against the logs and water splashes Aziraphale’s face. Pwcca is practically foaming at the mouth. Harrison looks ready to fight. The poor squad, drenched and frustrated, either want to finish their fortifications or go to bed. Aziraphale approaches and they all bow.

“Right, how close are we on finishing the second flood wall I ordered?” the prince lies, looking directly at Harrison.

“There’s been a delay, Your Grace,” Commander Harrison replies, without missing a beat.

“I’d like to have it finished before the rains really start,” he suggests, looking around the wall at the sheets of driving water. “You know the wind will only pick up from here.”

Pwcca stutters. “You—you ordered this?”

The prince looks at him levelly. “I don’t want to drown, do you, General?”

He sputters and Aziraphale looks to the squad leader, a small lieutenant. “I appreciate your diligence in this task. I know it was your squad who lead this appeal and followed up. We are most grateful for your service. I would ask that your squad help me in a personal task in the coming days.”

The lieutenant’s eyes sparkle. “Yes, Your Grace.”She bows. “I’m Lieutenant Eve. We are at your service—right after we finish the flood stop.” She leads her soldiers back into the rain.

Aziraphale pats Harrison on the shoulder and thanks him for his work, nods to the man who escorted him, and then waves Pwcca to walk with him. They walk slowly, but others avoid them.

“Did I heard that you wanted to flog them, General?”

He sputters, “This army needs more discipline.”

Aziraphale sighs. “We’re in a typhoon, General. Maybe keep the discipline for non-natural disasters.”

And that’s enough of that. He needs to get back to Crowley. Not that it’s ever that simple. He is stopped another thirty or so times to help with little problems and inconveniences. Sometimes, it’s less negative. Some people just want to say hello to royalty. Finally, he pulls the flap to his tent open and steps inside to remove his boots. The wind rips inside with him, making the canvas blow.

Once these are tied shut again, he takes in the sight waiting for him. Crowley is seated at the desk, which he has pulled into the center of the room like a dining table. Two bowls of fish stew steam on it and along with a plate of venison and rice. There are also glasses of rich red wine and Crowley’s red and black iron tea set.

Crowley, however, is the dessert. In the middle of an incoming storm, before a battle, Crowley is naked, except for his red, lacy panties. He has braided his hair into a long plait, which hangs over his left shoulder. On his head is a gold circlet—the one Aziraphale had him bring along. A serpent loops back on itself and bites its own tail. It shines against his ginger locks.

“Darling,” he breathes. Crowley rises and joins him at the entrance. He helps him out of his coat, then takes his hand and pulls him to the table.

“Aziraphale, will you join me for dinner?”

Aziraphale pulls his tunic over his head and drops it onto the bed. He sits in the chair that his partner has pulled out for him and looks up at Crowley. The companion smiles adoringly, then settles into the seat next to him.

They begin with the stew, which Crowley says with an eye roll is “not _bouillabaisse_ ”.

“That’s from your District, is it not?” Aziraphale asks, blowing on his spoonful of stew.

Crowley makes an indecisive noise. “More or less. More north than where I’m from. We have mussels, but no one can afford that. We ate lots of eel growing up. I hate eel.”

He may, but the eel is chewy and rich in the clear broth. It’s the right meal for a rainy night. The wind shrieks outside. Clearly the storm is driving closer to them.

“I remember you said,” Aziraphale sips some wine, “you’re from near a volcano. I don’t know that you’ve ever told me where in the Southern District you’re exactly from? Somewhere near vineyards, I know.”

Crowley cuts the venison into chunks, selects a small portion with his chopsticks, and nibbles at it. “About two hours south of the capital of the Southern District; a town called Dìyù.”

Aziraphale studies him and chews on his fish. “Would you take me there?”

Crowley pauses and then chews again. “Course. If you wanted to.” He pokes at the rice with one chopstick before selecting another piece of meat. “Aziraphale, it’s nothing like our lives now.”

Aziraphale scoops some of the rice into his stew and mixes it in. “You’ve said that the poverty level is quite high.”

Crowley fidgets with his braid. “I don’t know how to explain it.” He sets down his chopsticks then turns in his chair to face the prince.

“The average person lives on pilchards. They spawn close enough to shore that the whole town goes out with nets and brings in boatloads. Smoked and dried, they keep people all year.” He glanced down at his untouched bowl of stew. “One of the first things I learned to cook was pilchard soup—onion, whatever greens you’ve got on hand, dried fish. Other stuff, if you’ve got it. Make it as thin as you need, if things are tight.”

He drops his plait and pours tea as if he’s trying to keep his hands busy. “A few times the shoal didn’t come in. People lined the bay and watched for the schools. I was about twenty-seven the last time they didn’t. People starved. The infant mortality rate was over thirty percent that year.”

Aziraphale freezes with his spoon halfway to his mouth. “That can’t be right,” he argues, “I’d have heard about it.”

Crowley clutches his teacup. “Your mother did. She sent a wagon convoy to the District, or so we were told. Nothing ever made it to Dìyù.” He shrugged. “People emigrated to Fegefeuer out of desperation.”

Aziraphale drinks down his wine and pours himself another glass. “I never knew. I would have done something—“

Crowley shrugs. “Sandalphon and Gabriel _were_ there around the same time. I think that’s when Beelze and the King met, actually. Our House was really hurting for money so Beelze and Dagon did some dancing at the local teahouses. They met Gabriel one night.”

Aziraphale pushes his bowl away and snags his chopsticks to eat some venison. “Did you have to… dance?”

Crowley shakes his head. “I had a _regular_ at the time. She kept my bills to Lucifer paid.”

“You’ve had a patron?”

“No, you’re the first.”

Aziraphale forces himself to finish his stew. “But you did see her multiple times?” He’s jealous, he realizes.

Crowley studies him. “Not like that, actually. It was my birth mother, Lady Lilith Brimstone. She’d have me over while her husband was away and I’d play her pianoforte. She’d sit by the bench and watch me. We never spoke. We never acknowledged who I was to her. After about a year, she stopped asking me to visit.”

He pours Crowley the last of the wine. “I’m sorry, my dear boy, that sounds,” he pauses to find the right word, “incredibly cruel.”

Crowley laughs loudly and holds up his wineglass. “Just so!”

“To terrible mothers,” Aziraphale toasts and they touch their glasses together and drink.

Crowley finishes his wine and pushes away from the table. He stands with long, graceful limbs, then pulls the desk back to its former position. He shoves his chair with it. Then lithe like a snake, he settles on the edge of their bed. He doesn't say anything, just watches Aziraphale. The wind ripples along the tent walls behind him, but he’s still a sight.

The prince wants him suddenly. He makes himself slowly finish his wine. He savors each bite of his stew. He watches the way the lantern gleams on Crowley’s golden circlet and ring. He gathers the dishes into a neat pile and tucks his chair back under the desk. Then he peels off his socks and unties his breeches. He collects all his clothes and neatly hangs them from the chair.

When he turns back, Crowley has rearranged the blankets so he’s lying in the center of them and his panties are dangling from his finger. He holds them out to the prince, teasingly.

“Add these to the laundry pile, would you, angel?”

Aziraphale drops them onto the floor and climbs onto the bed, straddling Crowley’s slim hips.

“Do you still want to have me?” the companion asks, his eyes hooded.

Aziraphale ducks down and kisses him. It’s hot and needy. He presses his chest against his lover’s and sucks at his tongue and lips. He wants to take this slow. It’s been weeks, but his blood sings with lust. His hands slide lower, already clutching at Crowley’s sides and buttocks.

“Lift up. I want to have you, right now,” he growls and Crowley’s eyes darken. He slides out from under the prince and settles his arse against Aziraphale’s groin. He loops his long legs around his hips and arched his eyebrow.

“Then take me. I’m yours,” Crowley purrs. Who is Aziraphale to keep him waiting?

There is sweet almond oil in a small, ornate vial already by Crowley’s pillow. He hands it to the prince with a devilish grin. The stopper comes free with a sound, but Aziraphale cannot hear it over the whistle of the wind or the hum of his blood.

His fingers drip with oil but he concentrates on using it to slick Crowley’s entrance. He rubs it in small, tight circles across his hole. He can already see that the douche has loosened him up some, so he guides his first finger inside. Crowley’s back arches and he moans. His circlet shines but stays perched on his head.

“Beautiful,” he praises just to see the high color that appears in Crowley’s cheeks.

It’s been a while since they’ve done this, Aziraphale notes and he’s suddenly panting for it. He wants inside his lover. He circles his finger, tugging at the inside of Crowley’s rim. It’s too soon, but he’s already rubbing the outside of his rim with his second finger. Crowley is quaking with need.

“Yes, _yes_ , angel, go ahead.” So he pushes his second finger into him up to the first knuckle. Crowley is rocking his body on these fingers, already trying to fuck himself. He tightens his hold on Aziraphale’s hips and tries to tip his weight forward and deeper inside him.

Aziraphale decides if he’s that desperate, then he’ll give in to him. He slicks himself up and brushes the head of his cock on Crowley’s entrance. Crowley presses back and suddenly Aziraphale slips through the tight ring of muscle and into that deep heat. He freezes, letting Crowley grunt and settle. It takes a moment, then Aziraphale feels his inside walls loosen and Crowley gives a shuddering grunt.

“Ready?” the prince asks, already knowing the answer.

“Yeah, I’m good,” the consort replies with a lazy smile. “So good.”

Aziraphale begins to thrust forward, struggling to find a smooth rhythm when he’s a hair-trigger away from coming already. He groans as he slides forward deeper into Crowley and then back out again. He glances down and nearly comes on the spot.

Crowley holds himself up off the bed so that he’s level with Aziraphale’s groin. The prince kneels between his legs and holds his hips. Crowley, however, _oiran_ or not, is completely overcome. His back is bowed up so that he arches off the bed on his shoulder blades.

Aziraphale untangles his legs and presses Crowley into the mattress. He ruts into him while he brackets his lover’s shoulders with his arms. They’re face-to-face and Crowley tilts his chin up to kiss him. Their tongues linger and twine. Crowley bends his knees on either side of Aziraphale’s hips and they’re closer then. Aziraphale can feel his belly rubbing on Crowley’s erection with each thrust.

Crowley sucks on his ear lobe and nibbles up around the shell of his ear. His exhales are hot and short. He noses down the prince’s chin. Aziraphale cups his cheek and pulls him over to kiss his mouth.

Then he balances on one arm. He reaches between them and takes his lover in his hand. It’s a loose grip at first but Crowley howls and jerks into his fist.

“Like that, my love?” Aziraphale asks, teasingly, his voice and eyes dark with lust. “Can you come for me, you beautiful boy?”

And Crowley shivers and then does. Lost in how beautiful he looks, Aziraphale shifts closer and thrusts into his heat in quick, short rocks. It’s building there, across his belly and deep within him. He feels it lighting him up. He keeps stroking Crowley in slow, loose strokes and the companion is shaking under him and mewing.

Crowley’s arms lock behind Aziraphale’s neck and he cries out his name. He shivers with each stroke down his softening cock. Aziraphale's grip tightens as he thrusts deep and hard into Crowley and comes. He pants and Crowley keens under him, his hips rocking with his lover’s climax. He tries to keep up the roll of his hips to work the prince through it, but he’s shivering too much. Aziraphale lets his weight fall from his arm onto his companion’s chest and he pulls out slowly his cock twitching.

Crowley moans and falls back onto the sheets. “Aziraphale, that was amazing.”

Aziraphale thinks about making a joke about how as a companion he shouldn’t be so impressed by missionary position sex, but the words die on his tongue. Crowley lays sprawled across the bed, mouth red with bites and kisses, tiara akimbo. He looks completely blissed out and in love. It makes Aziraphale’s chest clench.

“Oh my darling love, you are beautiful.” Crowley smiles in reply, slow and sleepy. The storm outside their canvas walls roars as they lay on their sides facing one another.

Aziraphale reaches over and tucks the blanket over Crowley’s bare shoulder. He pulls the circlet from his partner’s hair as Crowley snuggles closer. The prince reaches over to set the tiara on the table and lower the lamplight, but just before its extinguished, Crowley speaks.

“Leave it on?” he asks, with a small voice.Aziraphale pauses and lays back on the bed. “I know it’s just a storm. I know. But… leave it lit please?”

Aziraphale pulls Crowley toward him and wraps him tight in his arms and the layers of blankets.

“Typhoons are unnerving in the palace, but not nearly this loud. Don’t feel embarrassed.”

“This is my first one,” Crowley replies and traces his fingers through Aziraphale’s chest hair.

“Try to sleep, my dear,” the prince suggests and pulls them closer together. He closes his eyes and focuses on the feeling of the covers over his body and the slight form in his arms. He dozes.

He wakes as Crowley is extracting himself from the bed. The storm’s ferocity has increased. Even inside the stone walls, the wind is savage.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asks and sits up to increase the amount of flame in the lantern.

“Chamber pot,” Crowley answers and stumbles over to the corner of the tent. Aziraphale takes the time to stand, slide on his breeches, and open the tent flaps. The cavern is dark, but he can see the campfires that have been left to burn. Someone has built firewood walls around them to help stop the wind. Even still, the flames struggle in the gale. His eyes need time to adjust to the dark again after looking into the fires.

When they do, he takes in what he can of the camp. Some soldiers have moved their tents into closer formations and others have lined them against the wagons that are staked into the ground. The tents struggle to stand up in the wind.

Someone has added height to the waddle fence around the horses. He cannot make out much about their bodies but can tell that the animals are clustered together closest to the cave walls. Very few people are out, so he ducks back into the tent and ties the flaps securely closed once more.

Crowley rearranges the room as the prince reenters. He pulls the sofa over and together they use it to hold the flaps closed.

“Is this the worst of it, you think?” Crowley asks, aiming for disinterested, but missing by a mile.

“I couldn’t tell you.” He gathers Crowley into his arms once more and hugs him. Crowley sinks against him and holds on tightly.

“I’m not brave,” he admits, his voice wobbling.

“That is a falsehood if I ever heard one.” He tugs them back toward their bed and nests them among the blankets. “The storm will beat on for hours, my dear. Best just sleep as it passes.”

They cuddle in their bed and Crowley noses at the prince’s jaw. The wind rumbles and moans, like an engine that produces constant high pitched squeal. Crowley twitches and wiggles before finally giving in to his anxiety-induced exhaustion. Aziraphale lowers the lamplight and holds him.

As the storm rages, he speaks to Béḃinn. “I do not want him in danger. I would only agree to let him join me if he stayed at my side. You told us that we would only be successful as a pair, yet you ask me to send him on without me. You ask me to let him be captured by my enemy. You know that she will hurt him.”

He kisses Crowley’s beloved hair. “How can you ask that of me? How can you ask that of him?”

Then the world slows and he hears their Lady’s voice on the wind.

_Would you have Michael wear your brother’s crown?_

He’s startled and suddenly angry. He holds Crowley tighter. “Of course not. Nor would I send the man I love into her hands. She has singled me out—she will hurt him to get to me.”

It feels as is Béḃinn waits for him to continue. Determined, he does. “What would you take in exchange for his involvement?”

_Are you asking if I will take a sacrifice to keep my snake out of the war?_

He touches the pale, freckled skin along Crowley’s neck. “I am. What would it take?”

_An exchange with a goddess means mortal blood._

“I would die to keep him safe,” he whispers and means every syllable.

_Then that is not an exchange I will make. Your death would kill him. While I long to dance with him in the eternal fields, I will not make him suffer first. His life has been hard enough without you heaping grief on him._

“I was meant to heap affection on his head,” he whispers, and tears cloud his eyes. “I feel I’ve done nothing of the sort. I’ve been dismissive and rude. I’ve argued at every turn and ignored him. I didn’t even spend the first day we were bound to one another together. I rode away.”

_That, I’m afraid, was me. I made an exchange of my own. I wanted happiness for my most beloved fly and serpent. To grant them love, I had to give another god war and strife. It’s a balance, little prince._

“You turned Metatron and Sandalphon against my family?” he asks, mortified.

_I would claim such if it would reduce your heartache, but no. They made their own decisions._

Somehow that makes things better. He tucks his nose into Crowley’s hair and breathes in his scent.

“You want him happy,” he whispers.

_More than anything._

“Yet, you involve him in a game between gods.”

_I fear that I’ve oversimplified things for you mortals._ The air around the foot of their bed shimmers and she materializes as a tall, white runner duck.

Aziraphale sits up, unable to handle the visitation of a goddess posing as waterfowl lying down. He does not let go of Crowley and instead drags him into a slumped sitting position also. The companion rubs his face on Aziraphale’s pectorals and makes a questioning sound. The prince cups the back of his head like a child.

“Then explain,” the prince commands, gently.

_This battle is fated. The Morrigan foretold of a mighty warrior who would assert her dominion over these lands. “If she takes the thrice joined thrones then the rivers shall bleed and the people shall be shaken, but wealth call gathers at her feet.”_

“Yet the Morrigan took her as their champion?” the prince asks.

“They accepted her sacrifice,” Crowley mummers from his chest. The prince looks down at his partner, who wipes his face with his hands. “My Lady,” he whispers then kisses his fingers and brushes them tenderly to his temple. The duck nods to him.

_Michael has given the Morrigan what they want. A child._

Aziraphale starts, but Crowley leans forward. “Have Azrael and Michael consummated their marriage? Is there an heir in her belly?”

_It is so. He will be a mighty warrior and cleric unlike any have seen._

“And what does the prophecy say about the one who defeats Michael?” Crowley asks, rubbing again at his eyes.

And the duck begins to sing. It’s a sad, lonely epic that makes Aziraphale clutch Crowley’s arms. The consort leans his back against the prince’s chest as they listen.

_This old, blessed isle shall weep,_

_When the embattled lady rises._

_Her rage falls upon the nation of Fireblade._

_Will we thy people see the great princes’ destruction?_

_For dear, innocent blood shall pool,_

_When her ambitious deed is done._

_Hark! How these Eastern eyes do weep!_

_Oh nation of Fireblade!- the King’s hero awakes!_

_Fear not, oh blessed nation,_

_If his bright sword shall burn!_

_The beloved of the serpent,_

_Will arise for our vengeance with fire and flame!_

_Your wise, purple-eyed king,_

_Is now as strong as the cyclone!_

_Though the great walls tremble,_

_None shall deny his place on the throne!_

Aziraphale nearly shakes apart with anger. “You’ve killed him twice. Literally. He has died twice. And now you’ll hurt him again?”

Crowley turns in his lap and clasps his face in his hands. “Angel?”

“'Dear, innocent blood will pool?’ And then ‘the beloved of the serpent’, which is also the ‘King’s hero’ will take his vengeance?” Aziraphale wraps his arms around Crowley’s shoulders. “No, not again. You’ll ride for the palace as soon as the storm lightens up. I’ll take you myself. Fuck it all, I will not have you harmed again, my beloved.”

Crowley rests his forehead against Aziraphale’s. “Or will you take your vengeance for the ‘dear, innocent’ people of the Eastern Gate, whom she has torn down with an ‘ambitious deed’?”

Aziraphale pulls away and glares at the duck at his feet. She shakes out her white feathers and stares balefully back at him.

_I will not harm my knight._

“You swear it?”

The duck twists her head to the side. _Would you ask for a vow from a goddess?_

Aziraphale considers this. “What is Crowley’s vow to you?”

The duck has no eyebrows, but if she did, it would be raised high. _That is quite private._

“You know our vows to each other. Our pledges were in your name,” the prince counters.

_You did not even know what you were agreeing to,_ Béḃinn replies. Crowley stiffens in his arms.

“Yes, I’ll admit I was naive,” Aziraphale says, more to the man in his arms than the goddess-who-is-also-a-duck. “But it was the best thing to ever happen to me. I would not change a moment.”

He kisses Crowley and stares into his eyes. “Now, what did your vow to Béḃinn include, my dear? I would like to know the wording I need to use.”

Crowley blinks slowly. “I promised that I would serve her. I promised that I would dance for her—that I would worship her with each patron I took to bed. I never thought I’d be Pledged, but I promised to honor her each day in the way I cared for him that I loved.”

Tears well in Aziraphale’s eyes. “Loving me is your worship?”

Crowley blinks again, his eyelashes slowly flashing against his cheek. “How could anything as beautiful as what we have be anything _but_ worship?”

Aziraphale does not look at Béḃinn when he addresses her. “My Lady, I need your word that you will not let Crowley come to harm.”

_Then I need you to swear to kill Michael with your own hand._

This makes both Crowley and Aziraphale look at her.

_It will not be easy. She has the blessing of greater goddesses than I. But I am not so fickle as the Morrigan._

“I swear it,” the prince says immediately.

_Her child must not take its first breath. It must die with her._

Aziraphale hesitates.

_You would not know she was with child had I not told you. Do you swear?_

“I do. I will do as you ask. Will you keep Crowley from harm?”

_I do. The enemy shall not harm your beloved._

“Thank you.”

_Indeed, my little prince. Now, my sweet serpent, what would you ask of me? Peace again, is that your prayer?_

Crowley pulls away from Aziraphale and sprawls across the bed. He reaches out tentatively with his fingers and brushes through the feathers on her mantle. The goddess looks at him adoringly.

“I will never stop asking for peace, my Lady. But I would ask for something else,” his fingers trace down her wing, “ease my guilt? I have sentences so many at the Eastern Gate to their deaths. I feel as if I will drown in it.”

Aziraphale’s heart clenches. “Crowley,” he says, reassuringly, even as he knows that he has not helped with such guilt.

_I cannot do that, my little snake. I cannot absolve you for something you have not done._

“I made a choice. I chose to let Michael kill them to save the country from the typhoon—“

_You have not forced Michael’s hand. If she chooses to attack the Eastern Gate, then she will. You are no more guilty of such an attack than those who fall under these winds._

Crowley is crying. Aziraphale reaches out and clutches the backs of his lover’s calves—the closest thing he can touch. He strokes them, in what he hopes is a soothing manner.

The duck waddles closer and settles down between Crowley’s shoulder and hair. She uses her bill to pull at his plait until the ribbon slides loose and his hair spills across his bare shoulders. 

“I saw in the atlas that there is an orphanage there. I can’t begin to think… those children,” he laments and presses his face into the bed.

_Crowley_ , the goddess says and her dark eyes stare down at him, _my little snake. I would spare them all if I could. I would. Killing is not worshiping to the Morrigan—victory is. I will see what I can do._

“Thank you,” Crowley sobs, and Aziraphale launches down the bed to pull the _oiran_ into his arms. “What can I do in repayment?”

Béḃinn stares at him. _None of the other deities believe me when I say that I have to beg you to ask for selfish things, you know._

“You’ve given me so much more than I could have ever dreamed,” Crowley sniffles. “Love at first sight, like a fairy tale, with a kind, generous partner. A good, happy life for my sibling. _Health_ —you took away my back pain. What more could I ask of you, my Lady?”

_Yet I give you such pain in return_ , Béḃinn says sadly. _Let me give you something. A small token of how much I adore you._

Crowley offers nothing in reply, but snuggles into Aziraphale’s arms and tightly touches the feathers on Béḃinn’s breast.

“The storm is unnerving to him,” Aziraphale offers. “He appreciated you unpacking our tent and belongings. And he hates fish stew.”

Crowley gives a wet laugh. “I do not look forward to packing this back up and eel is disgusting. But thank you for the net. It helped the troops.”

Béḃinn snaps her wings against her body and suddenly the tent is quieter. Some tension eases from Crowley’s limbs. _I’m not sure you’ll be able to remove the palisades now, but it should cut down on some of the noise._

“Thank you,” Aziraphale offers, before touching her head reverently. “You are so good to us.”

Her feathers fluff and she stands. _Sleep, my pets. I am never far from you._

And the goddess is gone.

Aziraphale pulls Crowley up to the bed and rearranges the blankets around them. Somehow, they’re warmer. The room is darker also, without losing the warm glow. Crowley tucks himself into his pillow, hiding his tears. Aziraphale strokes his back and kisses his shoulder.

He stands and heads to the chamber pot. He’s surprised to see that Béḃinn has emptied it.

“Thank you, sweet goddess,” he whispers and relieves himself.

As he heads back for their bed, he takes stock of other changes. There are now trunks instead of their carry alls. Their dirty dishes are missing or stacked and cleaned. A small bathing tub sits in the corner along with a basin.

Curious, Aziraphale opens the lid on the first trunk and finds elegant fabrics that will be striking against Crowley’s pale skin. Right on top, is a handkerchief. Satisfied, he crawls back into the bed and hands the handkerchief to his consort.

“Dry your eyes, my dear boy,” he says. “We will make this right. We will.”

“Did I bully you into the Pledge tea?” Crowley asks suddenly as he wipes his nose.

Aziraphale considers his answer. “No. I did not know the complexity of what I was agreeing to. I wish I had. I would have given it more of the regard it deserved. It was our handfasting, my love, and I was smitten, but a bit obtuse.”

Crowley gives another wet chuckle and blots his eyes. “I should have waited, but I don’t think I could have. You told me that you didn’t want me to be like the rest of court… you ate that soup like you were having an orgasm. You danced like an angel. I was done for.”

The prince cups his beloved’s face. “I would not change a thing. You did not bully me, Crowley. You took my sigil onto your arm like it was meant to be there—I saw your serpent painted on my arm and thought ‘right, that’s where it’s meant to be’. It was just like when I woke up at your side for the first time. It was always to be and I had just been waiting for you, without even realizing it.”

There are fresh tears in Crowley’s eyes now. “Angel, you’re a sap.” He kisses him then and pulls the prince on top of him. “Take me again, Aziraphale. Make me yours again.”

Aziraphale presses his weight down on the _oiran_. “You are already mine, as I am already yours, darling.” Then he kisses him with a slow and unrelenting drag of his tongue. “But I will have you until you tire of me.”

Crowley loops his arms around Aziraphale’s back. “I’ll have been dead for a month before that happens.” 

The prince traces across the companion’s nipple and Crowley gasps. “I’ll have you know, however, that I already have an agreement with your brother. He’s going to have me made into a bookend for you.”

Aziraphale freezes and looks up into Crowley’s face in alarm. “You what?”

The consort gives a serpentine grin. “You can be on the other side.” He pulls Aziraphale flush against him and wraps his long legs around him. “You’re stuck with me, my love. Nothing for it, even after death, we’re a matched set.”

With the first happy laugh in too long, Aziraphale teases, “Oh what _will_ I do?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My hurricane experience is limited to Irma (I'm in Central Florida) and a million tropical storms. Like Crowley, my anxiety was through the roof and I couldn't even sleep. It was horrid.


	8. Novel Authorities

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay everyone. Please mind your self-care, especially those of you who are in the service of others. It can drain you otherwise.

Somewhere beyond the palace walls, the soldiers are marching to war. Inside the palace, however, everyone is in motion too. Beelze cannot help as much as they would like, but there is so much to do. They try and rest here and there, but get up and back to work quickly. The court sees them do this and whispers speculatively to one another.

“Do you think the prince consort is with child?” they wonder to each other. Beelze grimaces and wishes it were already announced. Without a royal decree, some members of the court might help end the pregnancy before it officially begins. Beelze can imagine it, some lord or lady letting the train of their robe fall under their foot and tripping them. Beelze would tumble down the stairs and lose the heir to the throne. From that moment on, they take to walking while holding the handrail on the stairs, no matter what. 

All around them servants run. The large storm shutters are fitted to every balcony and opening. Items are tied down or relocated out of people’s way. The storm comes and so do the citizens. The palace, like so many citadels before it, houses its people in times such as these. The people line up outside the gates carrying bundles. It’s heartbreaking to see their entire lives diminished into small sacks. All the same, Beelze welcomes them personally and directs them to a safe space. First, they fill the Squire’s quarters, then the Great Hall, and then the ballroom. The court is beginning to grumble when that is filled too.

“When the late Queen was alive, she’d have never housed peasants in the Throne Room,” one gripes within Beelze’s hearing.

“It’s certainly a good thing that she won’t hear about it, then, isn’t it?” the prince consort snaps back. These gossips give hasty bows and scurry off. 

Pepper appears by their side, “Your Grace,” she says tiredly, but Beelze cuts her off.

“You’re nobility now, Pepper. Call me ‘Duke’ or ‘Sir’,” they remind.

Pepper blinks and then smiles timidly. “Are you sure?”

Beelze hums in agreement and loops their arm through hers. Pepper is shorter than they are, but it’s still pleasant. 

“Now, what do you need?”

Pepper frowns and glances over at them, “The kitchen is concerned that they do not have enough flour for the bread. I want permission to go into the town—“

Beelze stops walking and Pepper does too. “No, you will not. The storm is too close. Go back into the kitchen and tell them to open the stores. We have plenty and if they have anything to say about it, I will see them myself.”

Just then Brian runs up to join them. He gives a quick, sloppy bow. “Your Royal Highness, the cook is refusing to make the soup you ordered—“

“That’s it, I’m going to see him.”

The two children follow the prince consort like ducklings and the villagers part before them with low bows. 

“Bless Your Grace,” some pray and others whisper “You’ve saved us, Your Royal Highness”. Beelze gives uneasy smiles in return, but it cannot break through their foul mood.

The cook, Shadwell, is shouting and throwing things when the prince consort enters the kitchen. An iron pot booms as he throws it to the floor. His assistants duck around corners and under tables to avoid the shower of crockery.

His accent is strong and angry, “I’ll not be cooking giant messes of meals for the entire bleedin’ nation!”

“And pray tell now,” Beelze interrupts. They aim for completely unruffled, even as they feel anger pulsing at their temple. “As I have given a direct order and it was delivered by Lord Wensleydale—“

“That boy ain’t nothing more than a serving wart—“ Shadwell begins, then his eyes widen and he closes his mouth.

“And I was nothing more than a common tart according to you,” the prince consort snaps back. “However, Lords Wensleydale, Adam, and Brian, as well as the Lady Pepper are now my household and shall be treated with the deference afforded to such a title.”

Shadwell looks like he wants to spit. Beelze is familiar with this sort of man. They have bedded men like him a hundred times. All it takes is a firm hand and a show of strength. And, now, the prince consort has strength in spades.

“I ordered bread and soup made for the townsfolk. It is reported that you will no follow this order.”

Shadwell’s brows rise and color burns in his cheeks. Beelze cocks their head and waits for his defense.

“They be nothing but common. Same as me. And nobody be cooking my meals,” he growls, but his eyes stay fastened to the stone hearth. 

“They may be common, but they are my guests, just as you are my employee. If you choose to remain in our good King’s service then you will make soup and bread enough for our guests. If you decide not to, then please take your leave before the storm arrives. I would hate for you to be out in the rain.” Beelze stares at him. He is much taller than them, but he seems to buckle and hide under their gaze.

“Yes, Your Grace,” he finally says, his voice timid and small.

“Thank you, Shadwell. I knew the King and I could count on you,” they finally praise. They do not miss the way the cook’s eyes widen when they refer to him by name. The prince consort takes time to look at each assistant in the eye. “Thank you for your help. All of you.”

Then they turn gracefully and lead the children back out of the kitchen. They should go see to the settling of the townspeople in the Throne Room, but instead, they climb the steps (carefully and with one hand clutched on the handrail) up toward the court’s gallery. Many of them lounge about. Some strum guitars and others read poetry. When they see the prince consort, however, they jump up and offer assorted heights of bows and curtsies.

Beelze gives a serene smile and tries not to let their false respect rankle them. Then Gabriel comes down the hall from the direction of the Queen’s former rooms. Suddenly the bows and curtsies are deeper. Beelze rolls their eyes at this blatant hypocrisy. 

“Bee, sweetheart!” he calls excitedly. “Come and meet our new friends!”

Beelze comes to him and stretches up to kiss him. He bends down with a happy smile. He gives them another peck with an indulgent smile. 

“I have a surprise for you,” he hums and the court leans closer. Many of them stand and follow like obedient pets. The King ignores them all and takes the prince consort’s hand. They turn and Beelze studies the people before them. They do not know this couple, but as they stare at the woman, nausea rolls in their stomach. Her red hair is more grey than colored these days and her sharp nose is familiar. 

“This is Lord and Lady Brimstone,” the King introduces with a warm tone. “Lord Crowley’s parents.”

Beelze sneers and glares with hatred, “No, my Lord, that cannot be so. Duke of Tartaros’ parents would never show their faces here.”

Gabriel raises his eyebrows, but the Brimstones pale. Beelze continues loudly so the entire court can hear, “You see, when Crowley was an infant, they beat him until his hips and spine broke. Then they left him on the doorstep of our House like garbage.” Beelze tries to loosen the tight grasp they have on the King’s arm. 

Lord Brimstone sputters, “Our son was kidnapped—“

Beelze laughs, darkly. “ _That’s_ the story you’re going with? Not the one about how your wife’s indiscretions led an illegitimate son with your stablehand?”

Brimstone stiffens and his wife flushes. “That is a vicious rumor,” she tries, but the prince consort speaks over her.

“Or how that same wife would pay her _oiran_ son to come to her home when her husband was away?”

The court whispers and mutters to one another. Gabriel watches Beelze closely but does not interrupt. Lady Brimstone is ignoring the outraged looks her husband is shooting her. 

“That would be incest,” the Lady says. “He played piano for me.”

“He was in our home?” Lord Brimstone growls in a whisper, but in the silence it carries. 

Beelze gives the King’s arm a squeeze and sinks to their knees. Gabriel’s face belays his shock and he moves to pull them back to their feet. Instead, the prince consort grovels without sarcasm. 

“My good King and husband,” they begin and see his eyes darken with something close to attraction. Beelze files that away for later. “I beseech you on behalf of my brother’s spouse, the kind and brave Prince Aziraphale.”

Gabriel’s posture changes minutely to something more regal. “I will hear your plea.”

“The Lord and Lady Brimstone are heartless to pretend to be the cruel birth parents of my brother. They heard about my brother’s turn of fortune and aimed to play his gentle heart for their benefit.”

Said Lord and Lady both begin to protest, but Gabriel holds up his hand and they still. He looks back to his consort. “Go on.”

“If Prince Aziraphale were here he would not care if the Brimstone’s tale were true or not. Anyone who brought pain to the man he loves would suffer. He would demand their lands be seized and they are placed in the tower until the gallows be built.”

Lady Brimstone swoons and her husband grabs for her deadweight. They both tumble to the floor. Gabriel raises an eyebrow at Beelze, but they just bow their head.

“However, I know that my brother’s heart is kinder than most. He would ask that you send them away.”

Gabriel softens as Beelze’s voice does. “And what would you have me do to them, sweetheart?”

Beelze considers their hands and the firmness in their belly. “No parent should harm a child. All abusers should reap what they sow, in this I am sure. However, I am blinded by my love and devotion to my brother. I do not want him to be hurt, so I ask that they be sent away, never to return to the palace.”

Gabriel kneels down and takes their hands in his. “Are you sure?”

Beelze meets his eye and nods. Their volume is quieter this close to the one they love. “Yes. Let this be a great act of mercy you issue. Let the people know that you were angered by the damage to your royal household, but were merciful even then.”

Gabriel shakes his head, “I wasn’t asking for political analysis, sweetheart. I want to know what you want.”

They can’t help it. Their eyes flash with hatred. “Blood. I want blood.”

Gabriel stands and pulls them up as well. The Brimstones cower on the floor at the King’s feet.

“My good King Gabriel, have mercy,” the Lord begs. The Lady only sobs. 

“Our consort and prince begs Us to spare your lives because the Duke of Tartaros would not want you to die. However, Lord Crowley is not here to speak his mind. We know Our brother, however, and he would want your heads.” The King pauses and studies them. He offers the following in a sotto voice, but everyone hears it anyway, “Lord Crowley has your nose, goodwife Brimstone.” 

Then the King faces the court and makes his decision, “A typhoon bears down on us. When it has passed, Tomas and Lilith Brimstone shall be sent on their way. They are now stripped of their titles and holdings. With this comes the removal of their citizenship; they are exiled from Our lands and borders so that they will not bring Our beloved household any grief.”

Lilith Brimstone wails and Tomas throws himself facedown into the rug. “My lord and king!” But the King has spoken and guards haul them away. 

They will sleep with the common folk in the Great Hall. 

“That was not the sort of surprise I wanted for you,” the King whispers and pulls Beelze close. “It can’t be good for…” he voice trails off.

“You best tell them officially,” the prince consort decides, thinking on their earlier worries on the grand staircase.

“Are you certain? It’s early yet—“

“Gabe, my prince, it’s all right. Our Lady protects our little one,” they whisper gently and stretch up to give him another kiss on the jaw.

“As you wish,” he replies. “I can deny you nothing, you know, Bee.”

“I will do my best not to misuse such power,” they tease.

“Since we are all here,” the King says at full volume. The gossip that rolled through the court upon the King’s former announcement stills. “Let us take this time to celebrate the great achievement of our loyal prince consort. They have provided safety for our townspeople and welcomed them safely into Our walls.”

The court applauds politely. “This is particularly impressive as we are on the verge of war. We must stand united as a nation. We pray that you, Our court, will be united behind their further news: Our prince now carries Our line—Our Royal Heir is due in about six months.”

The court erupts. Some shout with joy, some slowly clap. The mixed reception is not what Gabriel expected, but he grins as if it what he wants. 

“My counsel has known for long weeks, so I am sure this not a complete surprise to some of you. However, we will announce it as soon as the winds die down from this typhoon.”

A small clutch of people begins to suggest colors for the banners to hang on the castle walls and others what they will sacrifice at the temples for a safe pregnancy. Beelze bites the inside of their lip.

“So, now, We beg you forgive Us. Our good prince needs rest. Weather the storm and look to the people in Our halls if you love Us,” he decrees and leads Beelze behind the closed doors of their suite. 


	9. Advance by Bounds

Aziraphale calls for the troops to begin to close up camp before the storm is completely over. Crowley takes his time to pull on his traveling attire. It’s miraculously dry and clean. He kisses his fingers are touches his sigil. 

“You’re good to us,” he whispers and then closes his eyes. “Please keep him safe.”

There is a white duck feather at the foot of their bed and it tingles with magic when he picks it up. Crowley kisses it and tucks it into his pocket for safekeeping. 

The wind is still blustering against the cave walls and the rain still pours, but the prince is counting on it to have tapered off when they’re ready to make way. It’s the sort of gamble that a leader must take. Crowley does not argue, he simply packs their bedding and begins to disassemble their bed while Aziraphale dresses. 

He hangs his sword from his belt, “I’m hoping that we can be on our way in three hours. And also hoping that the roads won’t slow us too badly.” 

If he means this as some sort of challenge, then Crowley does not rise to the bait. Aziraphale has agreed to this decision, even if his tone suggests that he is not completely at peace with it. It’s too late to change now. 

Crowley lifts Aziraphale’s cloak from the back of the chair and holds it out for the prince to slide into. “Will you meet with the generals first?”

The prince grimaces. “I suppose I must. I am not looking forward to it.”

Crowley chuckles. “You never are.”

Aziraphale leans over and kisses the top of his head. He shoves his feet into his boots, unties the tent flap, and heads out into the gray light inside the cave. Crowley pulls his hair into a tail and settles his headscarf around him. He throws his travel cloak across his shoulders and puts on his boots. With a last glance, he turns back to look into the depths of the tent. Everything is gone. He blinks. He steps outside the tent and then between one blink and another, it’s disassembled and neatly packed (with their trunks) on a wagon. 

He goes down to one knee and kisses his fingers again. His sigil prickles when he touches his fingers to it. 

“Thank you, mighty and gracious Lady,” he prayers. 

Crowley gets back to his feet and wanders around camp. The cooks are handing out gruel. Crowley grimaces and decides to skip breakfast. Instead, he strides over to the make-shift stables. He’s never been around many horses in his lifetime. They’re large and imposing. He stands at the waddle fence line and watches the animals shift and stomp. Some of them turn to face him, while others just turn their ears in his direction.

One of the calvary’s veterinarians sees him standing there and waves. “Hello, you’re the prince’s knight, I believe?” The man is tall and thin with a sloping nose. 

Crowley smiles shyly. “I’ve not been called that yet, but, yes, I’m Crowley.”

“The pleasure is mine, Lord Crowley. I’m Doctor Raphael,” he introduces, then wipes his hand on his trousers and offers it in a shake. Halfway through he stutters then bows instead. In the faint light, Crowley can see he has short ginger hair.

“Eh, none of that,” Crowley blusters, uncomfortable. “I’m nothing royal.”

Raphael chuckles, “I hate to tell you this, lad, but if you’ve handfasted AZ, then, yes, you’re royal.”

Crowley frowns, “AZ? I’ve never heard him called that.”

The vet waves it off, “We’re old friends. Ancient history.” 

Before he can expand, a tan mare noses at the vet’s shoulder. He swats at her, so she stomps around him and up to the fence.

“Ah, this is Diamond. She’s a whore for sugar cubes,” the vet says dismissively. “Could have been a wonderful war charger.”

Crowley uneasily eyes the beast. “She’s certainly large.”

Diamond bows her head and looks down on the companion. He takes a step back. 

“Don’t worry about her, Your Grace. She’s just pushy about snacks,” Raphael pats her rump and she snorts.

“Sorry,” Crowley says, uncomfortably, “I’ve never been around horses.” He searches for the words that encompass the beast's scale and unknowns. He finally settles on ending his sentence with, “They’re new to me.” 

Raphael nods sagely. “Best come in then,” he says.

“Ugh, what?”

“Best way to know a horse is to work with them, so in you come.” The vet points to a small hole in the fence where some crates have been stacked. 

He’s hesitant but has no excuse to offer instead. The tent is packed and Aziraphale is busy. He steps around the crates and into the fence line. Diamond approaches, but Raphael reaches up and grabs her halter. This stops her forward progress. Even still, Crowley watches her in concern.

A few other horses are coming their way. They’re not hurrying, but they have alerted the others in the pen that something is going on. Other horses look in their direction. Crowley swallows.

Then Bentley stops at Diamond’s side. He’s even bigger than the mare. 

Crowley notes this but also recognizes the animal. 

“Oh, that’s Aziraphale’s horse.”

Raphael looks over at Bentley. “A young gelding,” the vet clarifies. “He’s strong. The prince chose well.”

Crowley backpedals. “I don’t know if he chose Bentley or not. I just know we rode him,” he shifts his weight and glances up. Fifty or so horses are headed toward them in the small enclosure. 

Raphael follows his line of sight and nods, “They’ll want feeding. Grab a pitchfork,” he directs. 

Crowley follows his instructions and they toss hay from the bundles toward the attentive beasts. More animals trudge their way, each looking damp and devilish. Crowley does not like horses. The more he shovels hay, the less he likes them. Raphael gives him a sideways glance when the horses are all fed.

“What goes in must come out. Let’s get a shovel,” he says.

And then they scoop excrement. It’s not hard work and it’s nice to be side-by-side with someone without them wanting something. It’s like he’s equal to someone. It’s pleasant.

That’s how Aziraphale finds him. “Crowley?” he calls, his voice tinged with complete shock. “What are you doing?”

Crowley pauses his shoveling and wipes his brow. “Dr. Raphael needed a hand—“

The prince reels back as if he’s been hit. Then he quickly takes stock of the enclosure. When his eyes light on the veterinarian, he pales. Raphael sees him and walks toward the fence.

“Your Royal Highness,” he says and something about his tone tickles at Crowley. The vet gives a gracious, wide bow. Aziraphale looks away. “It’s been a long time, AZ.”

“Don’t call me that,” the prince snaps, and Crowley’s eyes widen. 

Raphael ignores this and continues speaking, “Your _oiran_ is learning a new trade. You should be proud.“

“That is enough,” Aziraphale growls and holds out his hand for Crowley. “We’re going.”

Raphael shrugs. “Crowley, you’re a hard worker. You’ll welcome in His Majesty’s stables anytime.”

Crowley is almost to the crates that separate the enclosure from the larger cave camp when he hears Aziraphale admonish the vet. 

“You will afford my spouse the respect that he is due.”

The vet’s voice drops into something like a threat, “Why get him used to it? Once you discard him—“

“You will mind your tongue, Dr. Raphael.” 

Then he storms away toward Crowley. The vet calls after him, “I haven’t forgotten any of it, AZ. And apparently neither have you! He looks a lot like me doesn’t he?”

Crowley sees the hitch in the prince’s step and the grimace that contorts his face. “To the yurt, please. Now. We have things to discuss,” the prince states and takes the _oiran_ by the elbow.

Raphael shouts after them, his voice ringing on the sides of the cave, “Let him come back and work, AZ. That way he’ll have another career path when you cast him aside. He won’t have to spread his legs for money!”

Aziraphale spins around and rushes at the enclosure. He does not move around the crates but jumps over the waddle fence instead. Horses trot out of the way as the prince grabs the vet by the collar. He speaks in a low, dangerous voice. 

“How dare you,” he says through clenched teeth. 

In this light, the high color in Raphael’s cheeks looks like a mix between fury and lust. Crowley approaches. 

“You’d fight for him? Really? My slutty Southern doppelgänger?” Raphael asks. 

His smirk disappears when Aziraphale’s fist contacts the vet’s mouth. Crowley hurries over and tugs the prince free of the other man.

“Angel! Stop!” he pulls Aziraphale away. “Enough.”

Raphael holds a hand to his bottom lip and glares. “You hit me.” He sounds surprised.

“We’re going,” Crowley announces and tries to pull Aziraphale away.

“He is a better man than you would ever dream to be,” the prince snarls. 

“Angel! We’re leaving!” Crowley demands again and shoves him toward the waddle. 

Another pair of vets approach Raphael and they talk together in low voices. Aziraphale stalks out of the enclosure, fuming.

“Why did you let him bait you?” the companion finally asks. They’re walking toward the yurt and around them, the camp comes to life. People are waking and dressing, packing, and preparing. The march is coming soon. 

“We have history,” the prince finally admits, his voice low and angry. 

“You were lovers,” Crowley surmises and the prince looks quickly at him in surprise. 

“Once, yes.”

Crowley nods. “Ended on a bad note, I take it.”

“Why do you care?” Aziraphale stops walking when he asks. They are nearly at the steps up into the yurt. 

Crowley studies him. “You’re upset. You were upset the moment you saw what I was doing. No, I mean who I was doing it with.”

Aziraphale frowns and shakes his head incredulously. “You have no idea the slight he made against you, do you?” 

Crowley’s mouth twists and he must admit that, no, he saw no slight at the time. The prince reaches over and pulls some hay off the shoulder of Crowley’s cloak.

“You are in royal colors mucking horse shit.”

Crowley shrugs. “It needed doing.”

Aziraphale meets his eye. “Did it, my dear? We’re leaving this cave in a matter of hours. What does some manure left in the middle of nowhere mean to anyone?”

Crowley blinks. “It’s a small enclosure. The horses needed it out of their foot space.”

Aziraphale continues to hold his gaze. “Very well,” he concedes. “And a Captain in His Majesty’s Armed Cavalry could not ask the mounted soldiers to do this? As is their job? Instead, he had to ask the consort to the prince?”

Crowley feels the creep of blush and shame. He looks away. “I was not thinking about court politics. Forgive me,” he admits.

Aziraphale touches his arm. “My love, anywhere we are is the court. You must never let them play you in that manner. I am sorry to admit it, but you enemies—or old boyfriends, in this case—are your enemies.”

Crowley glances over his shoulder but cannot make out the other tall ginger. “Do I look like him?”

Aziraphale sighs. “Perhaps? I will admit that I have a type.”

Crowley shivers and the prince takes him into his arms. “I like gingers. I like lean men. That could describe several in this cave, but I only _love_ you. Your body type might have first made you attractive to me, but the way you moved, my darling, and your disregard for the court, that sold me. Your character. Your intellect. Your body was an additional bonus.”

He kisses Crowley’s chin. “Now, come inside and get cleaned up. You smell like horses.”

An hour or so later, he finds himself packed into the back of a wagon with his and Aziraphale’s things. The prince and Bentley, along with the scouts and guards take the lead. 

The rain and wind have diminished, leaving a constant drizzle. Even this tapers off, however, as they begin their march. The sky is still gray and the roads puddled, but, as if by a miracle, few trees block their path and the road is intact. 

“I expected much of it would be washed away,” Crowley hears the driver of the wagon behind them say. The soldier beside the driver shrugs. Crowley watches them and the horses until the gentle swag of the wagon makes his eyes heavy. He pulls his cloak tighter, then curls up on the floor and sleeps.

He wakes as the wagon stops. Crowley sits up and rubs his eyes. All around, drivers slide off of their benches and unharness the horses. The beasts are hitched to picket lines and left to graze in the damp grass or wade in the swollen stream. Soldiers fill their canteens from the same creek or settle on rocks to rest their feet. Crowley finds the atlas that Aziraphale marked their route in and carries it with him when he leaves the wagon bed. 

The driver of his wagon removes the bits and harnesses from the horses. Crowley approaches him as he finds the cave’s page in the atlas.

“Any idea where we are?” he asks his driver as he studies the road. 

The driver leans over the page and frowns. “The last sign we saw was for Monmouth. That was a way back though.”

Both he and Crowley search the page. Monmouth is not there. 

“Maybe we made it further than I think,” the driver says and flicks to the next page. Monmouth isn’t there either.

“I must have misread it,” the driver finally admits when they turn the page again and find the town there. “We haven’t come three days ride in one morning.”

Crowley stares. It is possible, of course, when one is doing the bidding of a goddess.

“Excuse me, Your Grace,” the driver apologizes. Crowley steps away and the man unties his breeches to piss into a bush. Crowley decides this is wise, so he walks a bit further on and does the same. Once resettled in his breeches, he searches out Aziraphale. 

“There you are, my dear!” the prince calls when Crowley strides up. “How was your journey?”

“Well, if my driver is right, it’s been miraculously fast.” Crowley holds up the atlas and Aziraphale smiles.

“You noticed then too, did you? We will be at Fellstone Keep this very night,” Aziraphale seems a bit pleased and worried. 

“That means that Michael’s troops are likely within a day’s ride of us,” Crowley surmises. Aziraphale nods.

“More than that, she is likely attacking the Eastern Gate as we speak.” His tone is hard but sad. “If only we could ride faster.”

Crowley wants to point out that they agreed to sacrifice the Eastern Gate for the rest of the kingdom but decides it would be similar to rubbing salt into a wound. 

“You could take a group and ride ahead,” he suggests. 

Aziraphale shakes his head in disagreement. “We’d tire the horses. If it is as we expect, then they will not have it in them to charge after today’s hard ride.”

Just then, the gray clouds part and blow away in the wind. Sunlight streams down from a brilliant blue sky. Crowley squints up into it. “Our Lady smiles on us.”

“She has not stopped smiling upon us, my love.” 

Crowley pulls his sunglasses from the hem of his collar and slides them on his nose. “Indeed. We are blessed upon men.”

Aziraphale chuckles and pulls his consort to him. “No, my beloved. You are blessed. The rest of us just reap the benefits.”

Crowley adjusts his angle so that he can look down at Aziraphale. “You believe that, angel?”

Aziraphale guides Crowley along to a smooth rock he’s chosen. It isn’t entirely dry of puddles, so Crowley unfastens his cloak and slings it down. Aziraphale’s saddlebags are already set there and his trail food easily accessible. 

“I have seen Béḃinn bring you back to life twice,” the prince admits before sagging onto the rock with a sigh. He rubs the back of his thigh. 

“I’ve seen her bless you as well,” Crowley clarifies, before settling on his knees gracefully. He could be at a tea service, as he offers the prince jerky and cheese wrapped in wax. 

Aziraphale takes a bite from the jerky before considering his answer. “She is good to us, but she only blesses my brother and me because we love you and your sibling.”

Crowley finds the prince’s water skin and uncorks it. He drinks deeply before offering it to Aziraphale. 

“She calls Beelze and me her pets.”

Aziraphale swallows and corks the water skin. “I don’t think that’s the precise word, I just think she lacks any better options. You’re her children, I think. She loves you like a son.”

Crowley considers this and pulls his knife from his boot. He slices the wax free of one triangle of cheese and pops a bite into his mouth. He offers another to Aziraphale. The prince takes it with a kind smile. 

“We should go on a picnic someday.”

“This isn’t what you’d classify as such?” Crowley teases.

“No, far too many people nearby,” the prince’s voice drops huskily. He leans closer to Crowley’s ear, “I’d rather like to spread you out in the sun and taste you.”

Crowley sets his knife and the cheese down. He leans toward the prince and lets his sunglasses slide down his nose. His eyes glitter with possibilities. “Oh? How would you like to do that, angel?”

A slight blush, from embarrassment or attraction Crowley, isn’t sure, colors the tips of Aziraphale’s ears. “There are entire places on your body I haven’t sampled.”

Crowley smiles slowly and predatorily. “Would you have me on my hands and knees, my sweet prince? Would you spread me open and lick into me?”

Aziraphale eyes widen. He’s surprised and aroused. Crowley licks his lips. “I’d hold still for you. I’d let you lap at me until I was open and ready to be fucked. I would wait for you to let me come if you’d like. Out in the sun of some field where anyone could see us.”

The prince is slow to blink. He bites his lower lip and holds Crowley’s eye with a hungry look. 

“Perhaps I’ll take you right now,” he states, his voice dark and covetous. “Spread you out on this rock and let the army see what I have that they cannot touch.” 

Crowley nods. “I’m yours. You could.”

That seems to change something in the crackling energy between them. Aziraphale’s face shutters. “No, my darling. I would never. You are too precious to me.”

Crowley licks his lip again. “I know that,” he’s stuttering with his sibilants stretching out on a lisp. “I wouldn’t mind if you wanted me to be on show. If that would please you, I would, my prince.”

Aziraphale leans in close, their noses brushing. “You are just mine, Crowley. No one else is allowed to see you in that way ever again. They had their chance. They missed it.” 

Crowley ducks his head, suddenly embarrassed. “Sure, angel.”

The prince rubs his shoulder with one hand and then selects another piece of jerky. This he eats slowly, still watching Crowley with lust-hooded eyes. 

“Tonight, will you dance for me?” he asks, his voice laced with desire.

Crowley’s prick, which has already been taking interest in this conversation, perks up. “I will. In the Great Hall or just for you?”

Aziraphale considers this. He chews slowly and thoughtfully. “I’ll leave that up to you.” 

A spot-faced squire approaches and bows. 

“I brought over your ration,” he says as he hands each of them an apple and their portion of spelt wheat bread. 

“Some of the boys are fishing,” he notes and sure enough, some soldiers are barefoot in the creek. 

“All that splashing around isn’t going to lead to them catching anything,” Crowley notes and the squire snorts. 

“They won’t listen,” he says. Crowley grins back.

“I bet the cold water feels nice on the feet. Maybe they’re using fishing as an excuse?” the consort offers.

The squire nods and gives a bow in retreat. Aziraphale considers Crowley.

“You’ve been very friendly since we’ve been out of the palace,” he states. 

Crowley shrugs, “I’ve made some acquaintances.” Then he checks Aziraphale’s face. “Have I done something wrong?”

Something squirms within him. He doesn’t want Aziraphale to be jealous, but it would feel good to be that adored. 

Aziraphale smiles brightly, “Absolutely not. I don’t control you, my dear boy. I’m glad to see you meeting my people. I was just wondering if I’d kept you too close to me; are you lonely? I want you to have friends.”

Crowley shrugs and slices off a new wedge of cheese. “I’ve never really had any before outside of our House.” He adds hastily. “And you, of course.”

Aziraphale takes the knife from him and slices some for himself. “You’re very good at talking to people.”

Crowley nibbles on his cheese. “That’s the job more than anything. Meet new faces, put them at ease.”

Aziraphale turns the blade over in his hand thoughtfully. “Is it artifice then?”

Crowley fidgets with his sunglasses. “Sometimes.”

Two generals approach and the topic is dropped. The prince eats his bread and apple as the two provide their intel. Then, rather suddenly, he stands and dusts himself off. 

“Forgive me, my love,” he apologizes. “Duty calls.”

Cowley smiles and collects their lunch. “Just give me a kiss before we ride out.”

The prince smiles. “You have my word.”

Crowley stretches out of the rock and feels the heat of the sun on his face. When that bores him, he studies the atlas. He packs the saddlebags and carries them near Bentley. He finds the duck feather in his pocket and secretly adds it to one side of the bags.

Finally, he sits on the runner board and tugs the basket of altar clothes toward him. With an irritated sigh, he pulls a length of satin free, threads his needle, and sets to work. King Gabriel’s new crest is detailed. It takes about three hours to finish one cloth. He focuses on his task and the time slides by.

“You ready?” the driver asks, interrupting him.

Crowley blinks and looks around him. The soldiers are returning to marching formation. Horses are hitched onto wagons. The lunch break is over. A new mood seems to have descended also. They know they are close to their target and they’re ready for battle. 

Crowley grunts and tosses his sewing back into the basket. He looks around for the prince. 

“I just need a moment,” he begins, but someone calls “move out!” from the front of the line.

“Sorry!” the driver yells and hurries up to the bench, “Wagons rolling!”

Crowley considers his options but then swings up into the wagon bed. He leans around the outside and looks for the prince, but he is nowhere to be found. 

They ride without stopping this leg. It appears they are catching up to the storm too. Crowley finishes one altar cloth just as the dark clouds make it nearly impossible to see the detail work. He folds the cloth and tucks it, his thread, and needles back into the basket. Then, without warning, the clouds open up. Buckets of rain pour down. Crowley grimaces. He reaches outside the canvas opening and finds the rope, then cinches it tight. The opening shrinks as he does so. The inside of the wagon plunges into shadow. 

The driver turns from his bench seat to address him, “Getting wet back there, Your Grace?”

“It’s all right,” Crowley jests, “I know how to swim!”

“I hope you know how to fight too, sir,” the driver continues, his voice taut, “because we’re coming up on the Eastern Gate. We’ve had a report that Michael’s troops have razed these communities.”

Crowley struggles to stand up. He leans on the piles of goods to be closer to the driver. “What are our orders?”

The driver turns astutely with a raised eyebrow. “My orders are to carry on to Fellstone Keep, come hell or high-water. You’ve got a personal guard coming along too.”

“Right,” Crowley replies darkly. He continues to lean forward, trying to see over the driver’s shoulders and through the deluge. Through the canvas, he hears a conversation.

“How did we get stuck babysitting the whore?”

“A personal favor to the prince, my arse. It’s only a favor if we get a piece too.”

“Easy, mate, I’m pretty sure that’s treason!”

“Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. All I’m saying is I signed up to fight, not to take the prince’s strumpet to his house.”

“Strumpet? Who says that anymore?”

“Well he’s long, ain’t he? The whore? He needs a long word.”

The driver gives Crowley an uneasy look over his shoulder. The companion sighs and sits down, hidden again by the pile of tents. He closes his eyes and tries to sleep. 


	10. Squall Line

The messengers arrive as the lunch stop is wrapping up. The villages are razed and Commander Cortese has retreated to Fellstone Keep. All ideas in Aziraphale’s head scatter.

How could he have been thinking about taking Crowley on a picnic when his own people were dying? 

As they ride away and the prince berates himself. They’ve been on the road for nearly an hour when he realizes that he never said goodbye to Crowley. At first, it soothes himself that they’ll see each other at Fellstone Keep, but the closer they ride to the border, the more apparent that lie becomes. The prince is going to war and there will be no time for playing house. He calls Lieutenant Eve’s squad to him and orders them to stay with Crowley. 

He smells burnt thatch on the wind. Five kilometers from Fellstone Keep they catch up with the storm. The wagons make for the castle along with some of the troops, but the majority stop and dress for battle. Aziraphale straps on his armor in the pouring rain. 

The storm stopped most of the raids, to the prince’s surprise. They find survivors huddled in temples where they’d gone to wait out the typhoon. Each place they find these, a squad splits off and leads the people back to the Keep. There are less than Aziraphale wanted.

To the south, a mudslide took out the road up to a famous orphanage and three additional villages. These were untouched. For all those good reports, Aziraphale sees many corpses. He should have done more. He only sent eighty men! Cortese’s troops, those eighty who marched in the beginnings of the typhoon, have helped as they can, but many of them were wounded when Michael’s troops retreated. There are fewer boots on the ground than the prince would have liked. It shows. Too many innocents lost their lives. Rage fills his heart and he wants vengeance.

They follow the trail of devastation. Rain runnels off his face and cloak as he surveys the remains of homes and barns. Michael’s troops are barbarians. Livestock is slaughtered for sport. Corpses show signs of rape or torture. He jumps from the saddle and digs their graves alongside his troops. The physical ache of his muscles does not burn away the sorrow in his heart.

After hours of slogging through the mud and torrential rain, he orders his troops back to Fellstone Keep. Michael has pulled back due to the storm. The troops trudge over the drawbridge, still eager to help the survivors walk or herd the cattle and horses they collected even in their exhaustion. Some of the citizens look grateful to be helped through the gateway and under the portcullis, and into the bailey. 

The Keep is a border castle in every way; it’s ready for protecting the nation and the local town people during a siege. It is ringed by two levels of ramparts—the first encircles what has long been a garrison and town market—the second protects the Keep itself. The soldiers sigh when they see their tents are loaded into storage and they will be sleeping in actual beds. They dismount and lodge their beasts in the soldier’s stables, then are assigned quarters. Meanwhile, other soldiers greet the refugees.

The prince, however, rides on through the second ramparts and up to the Keep. He stops to leave Bentley at the stable before heading for the main wicket.

Tyler, his long-time butler, meets him at the door with a list of complaints. “They’ve taken over every public space!” he whines.

Aziraphale steps inside out of the driving rain and takes in the organized chaos. People are everywhere. Furniture has been moved from the front parlor and survivors huddle in small groups. They’re outlined by a blazing fire. 

Across the foyer in the opposite direction is the Great Hall. It is even more crowded. People are bundled in military blankets drinking hot tea or soup. Like the parlor, a large fire burns on the hearth. None of it makes a dent on Aziraphale. If anything, it seems like a dream. 

“They turned the Ballroom into an infirmary,” Tyler laments.

“Good,” Aziraphale states slowly. He feels like he’s moving in a haze. “I was never going to host balls anyhow.”

The crowd parts and there is Crowley, still dressed in his riding clothes. A dark-headed child, wrapped in a woolen Army blanket, is perched on his hip. He rushes to and fro, grabbing hot drinks for the refugees or assigning them cots. 

“What authority does an _oiran_ have?” Tyler continues, his voice rising. “He bustled in here and started giving orders.”

“He’s my spouse,” Aziraphale informs, still slow and hazy.

“Angel!” Crowley calls and hurries to him. He stops just short of the prince and takes him in. “You’re soaked through.”

Aziraphale looks up at that beloved face. His skin is pain, his sunglasses smudged, and his headscarf askew.

“Go get warm, angel,” Crowley orders, lovingly. “I need to help this little one find her uncle, then I’ll be right up.”

As soon as Crowley turns to return to the Great Hall, Tyler begins again, “Your Royal Highness, your consort insists that he take his quarters with you—“

“As he should,” Aziraphale comments, slow and dumb. He climbs the well-trod stairs up to his rooms. “—it’ll be fine, Tyler. See to the generals, if you would.”

“Should I put Dr. Raphael in his previous quarters then?” Tyler asks, but Aziraphale drifts past and leaves this unanswered.

In his daze, the Keep is full of murky wonder. The top floor is lined with rooms. Once he’d dreamed that he might have his heirs to fill these quarters, but that is not to be. It doesn’t smart anymore. He’s content. His rooms are at the very end of the hall, as is suitable for the master of a castle. He opens the door and enters the drawing-room.

A fire flickers in the hearth. Their trunks are already unpacked, but left stacked neatly and empty by the door. Aziraphale feels the lick of heat and wonders if he should shiver. He struggles to sit down. He tries to remove his helmet, but it takes multiple tries to unbuckle. He drops it gracelessly.

“AZ? I came to ask about the room situation,” queries a voice behind him. Aziraphale turns slowly. Raphael stands in the doorway, his brow knit. He has a split lip. “Why are you on the floor?”

Aziraphale struggles to understand the question. The only thing that makes sense is removing his armor. He knows there is a lot of it: gauntlets, shoulder-plates, body armor, and chainmail. He should take it off. Suddenly, Crowley hurries in with a tray, a towel, and a blanket. 

He does not stop for pleasantries but sets the tray on the table by the fire. A sudden look of alarm crosses his face.

“Angel?” he asks. Then he drops in a hurry to Aziraphale’s feet and begins to tugs the prince’s armor and chainmail free. He yanks off his woolen tunic and breeches and leaves Aziraphale in the cold air for only a moment. The blanket is around his shoulders nearly instantly and Crowley pulls him up and toward the armchair closest to the fire. 

“Stay there!” his consort orders and races back into their room. He reappears with a tumbler of whiskey and another towel. This one he rubs through the prince’s hair then over his bare feet. Aziraphale holds his whiskey and stares at it uncomprehendingly.

“Do vets not get the same oath?” the consort snarls at Raphael.

“Sorry, what?” the man replies.

“‘Do no harm’? Do you not claim that for animals?” Crowley leaves the towel draped over Aziraphale’s bare toes, then runs back into the other room for another blanket.

Raphael walks over to the fireplace and leans on the mantle. He yells after the companion, “I don’t get what you’re asking.”

“He’s hypothermic, you idiot,” Crowley replies and throws another blanket around Aziraphale. 

The prince considers this. He doesn’t feel cold. He doesn’t seem bothered that he’s naked either. It’s only when Crowley starts stripping out of his clothes in front of a stranger that Aziraphale tries to stand.

“No, angel,” Crowley reprimands and he kicks free of his trousers. He’s nude in a flash. He drops hurriedly into the prince’s lap and pulls the blankets around them both. “We have to get you warm, my love.”

Aziraphale blinks, but it’s a slow thing. His mind is sluggish. Crowley wraps around him possessively. His legs and arms wind him in a tight hug, while his hands rub up and down his arms.

Raphael clears his throat. “I came to talk about the—“

“Get out,” Crowley snarls. “Close the door after you.”

“You don’t have the right—“ 

“You’ll find I _do_. Now get out.”

Aziraphale might consider this a victory for Crowley’s authority any other time, but at this moment, his thinking is too muddled. Once the door snaps shut, Crowley turns his complete attention on the prince. 

“Sip this, very slowly,” he coaches and lifts the tumbler to Aziraphale’s mouth.

The prince tries, but hacks and sputters as he swallows incorrectly. “It’s all right, angel. Just take it slow.”

Time passes, but Aziraphale couldn’t say how long it takes. He feels heavy and tired. A squire enters. He wipes all of Aziraphale’s armor as dry as he can before taking it with him to clean.

“I’ve got dinner in the other room, once you’re warm,” Crowley tells him. 

“That would be lovely,” Aziraphale admit and he’s pleased that the words are less slurred than before. He stands. Crowley keeps him wrapped in the blankets and his arms as they walk into the other room. 

It’s warm in there as well, but the fire has been banked for sleeping. The bed curtains are drawn on all but one side and Crowley has set out Aziraphale’s pajamas. The prince pulls these on without removing the blanket from his shoulders. It takes Crowley’s help to get his feet into his socks. Crowley slides into his dressing gown and they sit at the table. 

It’s not a fancy meal. Stew sits in a cast iron pot on the hearth. Milk and bread accompany it, but little else. Crowley serves them each a large serving and sits across from him in silence. Aziraphale eats with relish. The stew is a smidgen too hot, but he’s too hungry to care. He finds himself eating too fast and forces himself to slow down. He chews more carefully. Crowley pokes at his food.

“Thank you, my love,” Aziraphale says.

“You scared me,” Crowley admits as he pushes a carrot around with his fork.

“I am sorry about that, I didn’t realize—“ he begins, but Crowley talks over him.

“I know you didn’t. You get so invested that you don’t care for yourself. That’s what I worry about the most, you know.”

Aziraphale considers how he might respond to that. “I am more worried that you’re about to be in our enemies’ hands.”

Crowley taps his plate with his fork but offers no reply. Aziraphale finishes eating in their mutual silence before he stands and collects their dishes on the tray. Crowley shucks off his dressing gown with a shiver and slides his long legs into pajama bottoms. Aziraphale watches him, then carries the tray back into the drawing-room. 

This is where the royal master of the house is to receive guests. A pair of armchairs and a sofa face the fireplace and behind there is a long table. His focus is on a pair of desks that line the walls. One has long been his own, but the other just gathered dust. Already he can see that Crowley has claimed it. His art supplies are neatly stacked on its surface. 

“Angel?” Crowley asks from behind him. He takes the prince’s hand and curls their fingers together. “What are you thinking about?”

“There’s a lot to do,” Aziraphale admits, glancing toward his desk. “I lost time.”

“You were ill,” Crowley reminds him. His voice is a mixture of reproach and concern. 

“All the same,” Aziraphale squeezes his hand. “I need to make up for those lost hours.”

He expects an argument, but Crowley surprises him. 

“You promised me that you’d let me shoulder some of the weight,” Crowley reminds, softly. 

Aziraphale gives a deep sigh. “I did. I also swore I would kiss you before we rode out. I broke one promise, I will strive to keep the other.”

“The war cannot be won tonight,” Crowley rests his forehead against Aziraphale’s temple. “What will keep you from resting tonight? Let’s focus on the priorities.”

“There are letters to write: the King, the council, and the troops further East. We have battle plans to draw up. No doubt somewhere is a packet of intel for me to read.” He rubs his thumb across one of Crowley’s knuckles. “Those are the essentials. Other items need to be accomplished but are less high priority.”

“Leave those to me. Just tell me what they are, angel,” Crowley says this softly then kisses Aziraphale’s ear.

“We need to order supplies. Begin rebuilding the towns—caring for the people, first, of course.”

Crowley leans back and brushes his nose across Aziraphale’s cheek. “I will see to the survivors here.”

“You have already done so well, my darling. It was the most welcome surprise.”

“I’ll make you proud of me, angel.”

Something dark twists in the prince’s stomach. He pulls Crowley in front of him and studies his face. “I am proud of you, Crowley. You are everything I need in a partner.”

Crowley ducks his head. 

“What’s brought this on?” the prince asks, concerned.

“Nothing new, angel,” he says, but fails to expand. He focuses on them instead, "Let’s get those priorities taken care of so you can rest. I’ll hunt down the intel.”

He squeezes the prince’s hand and disappears into the hall. Aziraphale watches him go and turns this over in his mind. With no context, Crowley’s words are empty. Aziraphale settles at his desk and pulls some parchment toward him and begins to write to the King.

The storm pounds the side of the Keep. Crowley pays no attention to the wind and rain when he appears with an armload of leather folders and other parchments. He opens it all and organizes it according to its topic. Reading through the documents is much faster, Aziraphale finds. Crowley also takes over sealing the letters. He pulls the prince’s signet ring from his pinkie and uses it to mark the wax on letters. Even with the expedited system, by the time they’ve completed the correspondence and sent it off with a messenger, Aziraphale’s eyes are tired.

“Bed, angel,” Crowley orders and holds his hand out to his partner. Together they leave the drawing-room. Aziraphale latches the door to their bedroom. He pushes the bar down across the door to lock them in. Crowley raises an eyebrow.

“Keep this door locked, my love,” he states.

Crowley doesn’t argue or question but instead raises an eyebrow and slides into their bed. Aziraphale follows him and pulls the curtains closed around them. This has been his home for most of his life, but he’s grown used to the steady wash of the sea. He listens for the waves and finds instead rain pelting the windows. 

Crowley is restless beside him. He tosses and turns. Aziraphale reaches for him and when he finds the consort’s shoulder, pulls him close.

“Are you all right, my love?” he asks. Crowley stills and rests against his chest.

“Can’t stop thinking.”

Aziraphale frowns and his brow knits. Has he given too much of the weight to Crowley? 

“How are we going to help all those kids down there? The orphanage will be overrun if we send them all. We can’t keep them here, I mean we could, but I fully expect the Keep to be taken at some point. Could we send them into the city? I don’t want them to end up on the street,” the companion expands and Aziraphale reorganizes his thoughts. No, this is not too much for his partner at all. His problem solving and his life experiences give him unique insight. He rubs Crowley’s back in slow passes. 

“They’re safe right where they are for now. We will find other options soon. Right now, rest,” he soothes. 

Crowley presses his nose into Aziraphale’s chest. “You as well.”

They lay there in silence and just as Crowley’s breathing evens out someone hammers on their bedroom door.

“Prince Aziraphale!” They sit up in alarm. “Prince Aziraphale! We have movement on the border!”

They’re both out of bed in a flash. Crowley struggles with the flint and he strikes it as Aziraphale throws the bar off the door. 

“Is it Michael?” he demands. Three young people, a squire, a messenger, and a page stand before him. Each has a lantern. 

“General Tchort believes they’re the forward troops,” the squire relays. 

Crowley’s lantern brightens the room and he tosses Aziraphale his dressing gown. The prince holds it and shakes his head.

“I’m afraid I’ll need to dress.” Crowley nods and moves to the wardrobe. Aziraphale directs his next comments to those standing in the doorway, “Fetch my armor. Send word to the generals that we will meet in my drawing room in twenty minutes. Go.”

The three scatter and the prince shuts and locks the door once more. Crowley has moved faster than the prince saw him. He’s laid out dry woolens in the chair by the blazing fire he’s stoked. He’s not there, however. Aziraphale follows the sound of the tap. Crowley is fiddling with the cistern. This system is similar to the palace, although the water must be boiled for heat. Crowley fusses over the firebox and curses under his breath. He squats down and glares at the small fire. 

“It’ll take a moment, angel, to get the water warm.”

“I’ll use it at that temperature, my dear, time is of the essence,” Aziraphale says, already stripping out of his pajamas.

“No, you won’t,” Crowley argues. His tone is stern and actually makes the prince stop. “You were hypothermic. I’m not letting you get that way again. You can wait.” He adds more coke to the firebox. 

Aziraphale considers arguing. Instead, he sits on the edge of the tub and watches the stiff set of Crowley’s shoulders. He leans out and offers a soft touch to his partner’s shoulder.

“I told you being at the front was hard. I wanted to shield you from this.”

Crowley looks up at him from his position squatting by the tub. He offers a facsimile of a smile, but it’s tired. 

“I’d rather be here to help you,” he admits. He turns the tap and touches the flow of water. It must meet his expectation because he leans in and adds the plug to the drain. 

Aziraphale strips and sinks into the water once enough collects. Crowley leaves him to it. He bathes quickly, using the pouring tap to wash his hair and face. He deems himself mostly clean and stops the flow of water, then empties the tub. He towels off his hair and his body quickly.

Crowley is already dressed in a simple black henley and trousers. His hair is tied back in a tail under a purple veil. He helps Aziraphale dress in a blue woolen tunic and beige leggings. They’re in the drawing-room quickly. Crowley stokes the fire and lights the lamps while Aziraphale finds a map. The generals slowly drift in, some still in their nightshirts. They gather around the long table and place markers to troop locations. 

Commander Harrison lays his newest correspondence from the front on Aziraphale’s desk. The prince slides his reading glasses on and studies the letters.

“Mastema and Pwcca’s troops have captured three scouts,” he reads in case the others are unaware. “Two incomplete platoons are at the border, but so far no reports about reinforcements. Do we believe these are the same that attacked the villages?”

Harrison considers the prince’s question. “There’s no way to be sure. It seems likely though—they seem to have tried to ride out the storm nearby.”

“You said 'incomplete platoons'?” Crowley asks. He’s standing away from the advisors, closer to the fireplace. The advisors size him up; Crowley does not look away.

“It seems that the camp is set up for a greater number of troops than are present,” Aziraphale clarifies. “Fewer wagons than they expected, that sort of thing.”

Commander Cortese rubs his hands together contemplatively, “The mudslide, you think? Or is this a ruse?”

Harrison, Tchort, and Abanddon shift uneasily, each muttering to the other. Aziraphale studies the map. This is his land, but he has not been its lord and master for some years. Add in the changes from this typhoon and he is unsure what he will find in way of the landscape. Crowley, on the other hand, has more faith in his abilities.

“Angel, didn’t you attack from three directions last time?” he asks.

Aziraphale taps the map. “We did. Here was the faux line, here the distraction, and here the majority of the troops. I wouldn’t count on it working a second time or even if the boats are intact after the storm.”

Crowley shakes his head and his veil gives a musical swish. “I was thinking more along the lines of what if Michael took a leaf from your book.”

Aziraphale considers the map, “You’re suggesting that there may be troops further afield?”

Crowley shrugs one thin shoulder. “Maybe.”

“We’ll send out scouts of our own,” Abanddon says, with a sharp nod. “Just in case there is something to that.”

“If I were Michael,” Crowley says carefully, “I would have done as we did. I would have had my army seek refuge from the storm. Is there any place they could have done that?”

Crowley wanders to Aziraphale’s desk and reclaims the atlas he spent so many hours pouring over. He flips to the page that houses Fellstone Keep and the borders of their land. Aziraphale and Abanddon search the map before them.

“I see no large cave systems,” the general notes. 

“There’s a large temple about twenty kilometers inside the border,” Crowley notes as he squints at the book. 

Aziraphale finds it on the map and points it out to Harrison. “Right off the main road into Michael’s former capital. She’d know it well.”

“Which deity?” asks Tchort, his voice tense, as if he does not want to know the answer.

“Multiple,” Crowley observes, “Dagda, mainly, but also Janus and Morrigan.” He stares at the prince as he announces the latter. Aziraphale nearly shivers. 

Harrison leans over Crowley’s shoulder and studies the temple on the map. “It appears as a temple complex—certainly large enough to hide in. To what degree they’d be protected from the storm, however? Who knows?”

Aziraphale considers all this and comes to some decisions. “Cortese, your troops are on guard of the Keep tonight. Harrison, gather two squads to accompany me to the border. I will see what Mastema and Pwcca are seeing with my own eyes. Abanddon take two additional squads south to check for possible invasions along the lake. We need to consider preparations to reinforce Device’s hold on the city also.”

“I think that may keep until morning, Your Royal Highness,” Tchort says, calmly. “Let’s restore this border first.”

Everyone agrees with the orders and this wisdom. They each grab assorted documents and hurry from the room. Crowley closes the atlas calmly. 

“I’m sorry to leave you in the night, my dear,” the prince begins, but Crowley turns to him and gives a warm smile.

“Just be careful, that’s all I ask.” He touches Aziraphale’s cheek lightly and walks into the bedroom to retrieve his boots and a shawl. A squire enters with Aziraphale’s armor and helps him into it. Crowley watches silently as he wraps his shawl around his shoulders. 

As ready as he can be at this point, Aziraphale holds out his arm for Crowley to take and they descend the stairs to the foyer and the Great Hall. Aziraphale slings his cloak around his shoulders and buckles it. Crowley reaches over and straightens it, before tucking Aziraphale’s hood over his head.

“It’s really coming down out there,” he observes at the squire opens the smaller door in the wicket. The rain blows into the foyer with the force of the gale. 

“I’ll be back soon,” Aziraphale states, then leans over and chastely kisses Crowley’s mouth. “Go back to bed.”

Crowley gives a tight smile in response. “Ride safely,” he says as if he’s considered several other words and finally had to settle on those. He quickly kisses Aziraphale again. As the prince moves away, his partner hugs his shawl tightly to his chest. 

Aziraphale ducks out the door and into the pounding storm. A chestnut mare is tacked for him and he swings up into the saddle. He chances a glance back toward the Keep. Through the rain, he can see Crowley in the doorway. He raises his hand to his mouth and kisses his fingers, then touches his sigil when he sees the prince looking. Aziraphale kisses the fingers of his glove and holds this arm up in goodbye. Then he spurs on his horse and rides down to the garrison to collect Harrison’s prepared soldiers.

Thirty or so of them ride out for the border. The wind rips through the trees and the horses are uneasy. The rain drives into their faces and stings when it hits the skin. 

“The typhoon should have passed by now!” he calls to Harrison who rides abreast. 

“I’m beginning to think it’s stalled,” the Commander replies.

It’s possible. Of course, the winds could have shifted and the storm could be retracing its path. Such things have happened before. The prince does not suggest this aloud. He knows that Béḃinn wanted him to attack in the storm. This certainly gives additional opportunities, he thinks.

The roads are filled with deep, muddy puddles. These run in rivulets off into the ditches. Those are already brimming with rain so that they are more akin to small rivers. Just as they approach Mastema and Pwcca’s position, a tree limb cracks in the force of the wind and crashes down onto the road. The prince’s mare startles and he dismounts in an attempt to calm her. 

“Easy, little lady, easy. It’s all right,” Aziraphale whispers.

He wonders if she can hear him over the whipping wind. Being in his line of sight must help, for she’s less shaken when Mastema approaches. 

“Your Royal Highness, we were about to send a messenger—the troops have abandoned their camp and retreated,” he reports. 

“Show me,” the prince orders and follows the general to a lookout spot. The troops all around him give salutes or bows. Even with these formalities, the prince can see they’re wet and cold. The wind makes staying dry impossible, even in the emergency shelters, they’ve devised. They’ll need proper shelter soon.

One Captain guides the prince to the telescope. “Just through here, Your Grace,” she calls over the wind.

Aziraphale leans into the eyepiece and studies the invader’s camp. The wind has flattened the tents. Rain puddles on the canvas. Fires are out and no vehicles or animals remain. The camp is abandoned.

“They rode about a quarter of an hour ago,” the captain reports. 

Aziraphale considers this and then orders everything packed up and returned to the Keep. “I believe the storm is headed in our direction. We will fortify the Keep and wait out the storm there.”

He stomps back to his horse, “Why didn’t you send word of this sooner?” he demands when Pwcca is in hearing.

Pwcca, looking much like a drowned rat, shrugs. “We wanted to make sure. We’ve been questioning the scouts, but so far nothing useful.”

Aziraphale grunts and takes the reins from the soldier on duty. “Bring them. Head for the Keep.” Then he turns to those who rode out with him, “We are going to make another pass through the villages and look for survivors. Harrison, take half and head for Mayfair. We’ll head for Soho. Meet us at Fellstone Keep in no more than three hours.”

Harrison nods and half the troops break off and ride further north. Aziraphale takes his half to the village south. It’s two hours of slippery mud and stinging rain, but it’s worth every second. They find a woman and her infant immediately. Two teenaged boys shortly thereafter. A man and his cat are last. Otherwise, they collect the livestock and herd them for the Keep.

The drawbridge is still lowered when they ride in. Aziraphale looks over the sides and notes the way the moat laps at the road. If it is this full, the cisterns will need to be emptied in all the baths. He does not have the energy to see that tonight. His limbs feel heavy and his eyes burn. The bridge raises after them and the portcullis rattled down and into place.

Aziraphale calls for the guard at the top of the rampart when he rides in, “You there!”

“Aye, Your Royal Highness?”

“I want a roll call. No one is to be outside these gates, but no one shall be forgotten,” he orders.

“Yes, Your Grace!” he replies. 

Some of the troops are dismounting, but those carrying refugees ride up to the Keep’s doors and help the citizens onto the ground. Other soldiers bustle about and bring them indoors. Harrison waves to the prince.

“Your Grace, we brought in two children and three men. Beyond that, just livestock and mallows.”

“Pardon?”

“Bags of mallows, sir. Must have been the harvest,” Harrison chuckles. “A few chickens too.”

Aziraphale pulls off his sodden gloves and shoves them into his equally wet pocket, “We have some cattle and a herd of goats. And about ten dogs,” he laughs. 

Soldiers and dogs are long compatible. Harrison rolls his eyes good-naturedly.

“I stopped counting. I think every saddle had at least one,” he admits. 

None are around the bailey, however. Aziraphale has little doubt that each one is already nestled, warm and dry, into some soldier’s bed.

“No matter. The cattle will help with the supplies,” the prince prepares to ride for his bed, but Harrison holds up his hand.

“We also brought in a foal. Her pelvis is broken and it’s caused an issue.”

Aziraphale wants out of the rain. “In what way? Ask the vets to help—“

“Your Grace, we did. Only, well,” Harrison wipes rain from his face and then waves the prince toward the soldier’s stables, “your spouse stepped in.”

Aziraphale swings out of the saddle and a stablehand races up to take the horse. The prince nods at the girl but then follows Harrison into the stables. It’s warm and humid inside. Warm yellow light burns from lanterns that line the walls.

Raphael stands, arms crossed tightly on his chest, glaring into one of the stalls. Aziraphale approaches with a grimace. The vet sees him and glares. He steps away and the prince gets a clear view into the stall. A brown foal lays in the hay under Crowley’s cloak. The consort sits near her in absolutely filthy and soaked clothing. This veil is too wet to sit as designed, so he’s tied it like a ribbon around his tail of hair.

“Angel!” he exclaims when he sees the prince. “They can’t kill her! She’s just a little thing!” 

The foal considers Aziraphale, then hesitantly butts her head into Crowley’s chest. He resumes plaiting her mane.

“A broken pelvis isn’t an easy fix. It’s more than a long healing process,” Raphael grumbles. “We might be besieged in here for months. How are you going to feed it, huh? She’s already frail. Trust me, this is in her best interest—“

Crowley snarls, “No. It isn’t.” 

Aziraphale waves the vet away and joins Crowley in the hay. “She is a lovely girl,” he admits. 

She is muddy, like the rest of them, but she has dark, inquisitive eyes and a white star that streaks down her nose. Clearly the foal is ill, however, as the prince can tell with just one glance into her eyes. But she as taken with Crowley as he is with her. She leans into his chest again and the consort pulls the cloak further up her neck. 

“I know he has a point,” Crowley says, so quietly his words are nearly lost to the wind and the rain, “but I had a broken pelvis too.” He strokes the plaits free from her mane and begins the braids again. “She’s just a baby. She needs a chance."

Aziraphale reels with the connection that the _oiran_ has made. Crowley does not allude to his injuries often. Aziraphale admits that he hasn’t thought of them since they were healed with the goddess Béḃinn’s intervention. 

His voice is a croak when he says, “We’ll move her into our stables.”

Crowley swings to face him with complete surprise. “Truly?”

The prince laughs joyfully. “Do you want this, my love?”

Crowley ducks his head shyly. “Yes.”

Decided, Aziraphale struggles to contain his exhaustion enough to stand. “Dr. Raphael,” he addresses his former lover and tries to keep his expression neutral, “Crowley has adopted a foal. Would you see that she’s moved to our stable?”

Raphael stares, but his expression betrays nothing. “You understand that it’s likely never going to be able to hold the weight of a rider.”

Aziraphale looks over his shoulder to where Crowley is wiping mud from the foal’s neck. “He hates riding horses anyway.”

Raphael studies the prince. “It may die from an infection from the break. I can’t guarantee that it will make it,” the vet continues, his voice harsh. It’s the same tone he used to use when Aziraphale was determined to get his way and Raphael was tried to wheedle out of it. 

The prince stomps water off his boots. “Do your best, please.” Then he turns to Crowley. “Best tell her goodnight, my dear. You need to sleep.”

Crowley looks ready to argue, so the prince interjects, “You need to sleep in your _bed_ , Crowley, not in the stable with the horse.” 

Crowley stares up at him in shock. He tries to start many sentences, all of them ending in strange noises and all trying to deny that was his plan. Aziraphale holds out his hand. Crowley takes it and allows himself to be pulled to his feet. 

“Speaking of beds,” Raphael says quickly, “Tyler told me that my former rooms are still empty. I was hoping to—“

Aziraphale’s brow crinkles in alarm. “Those are Lord Crowley’s rooms.”

Crowley opens his mouth to argue and turns quickly to catch the prince’s eye. His sodden purple veil flings water with his movement. “I’m not—“

“I heard he’s sleeping in your bed,” Raphael counters. “Plus, it was _my_ old room.”

“Dr. Raphael,” Aziraphale says, his voice betraying his frustration and near anger, “my spouse’s rooms are his to decide what to do with. I believe you have sufficient housing with your men in the garrison. Should Lord Crowley choose to let someone stay in his chambers, I am sure it will—“

“—be the children who have been orphaned,” Crowley decides. “They’ve been through trauma. I would like to open the nursery, as well, if that’s amenable to you.” 

Aziraphale slides his arm around Crowley’s slender waist. “My darling, of course.”

Raphael stares. His eyes are steady and hard, “Finally given up on the dream of a nursery full of your heirs and spares?”

Crowley recoils from the vet. It’s such a retreat, that if the prince’s arm hadn’t held him in place he might have taken a step away. 

“I am pleased with my place in life,” Aziraphale replies, shortly.

“Yeah, but you’re the next line to the throne, AZ. You best find a girl of good breeding with some wide hips and make—“

“I have no idea who the fuck you think you are,” Crowley interrupted, his voice slick and dangerous, “but you need to shut the hell up.”

Raphael takes a clear, aggressive step forward, but Crowley gracefully counters it by leaning into the other man’s space like it’s a dance position.

“I don’t like it when people talk shit just to fuck with somebody. Aziraphale is my husband. I especially don’t like it when people talk shit to fuck with him,” the companion says, dangerously. “The Prince _is_ the next in line for the throne and you need to show him some goddamn respect.”

He gives Aziraphale a guiding shove toward the exit and saunters toward the door.

“I’ll be by in the morning,” he calls back over his shoulder to the foal. “Sleep tight.”

Aziraphale is completely stunned. He has never seen that sort of defense mounted for him. He stops walking and watches Crowley. The companion looks suddenly nervous.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“No, my darling. You simply amaze me every moment,” Aziraphale admits finally. Crowley looks embarrassed. “Come now, my love, let’s get some rest.”

The prince unclasps his cloak and holds it over them both. It doesn’t much matter. The wind is violent and comes from all directions. As they exit the stables, Crowley guides them onto a raised footpath made from wooden pallets. 

“This is genius,” Aziraphale declares gleefully. “The bailey always floods.”

Crowley faintly blushes. “It happens in the South too.”

Aziraphale nearly stops again. “You did this?”

Crowley looks away. “I had the guard do it, but yes. I saw the pallets from the market and assumed no one would miss them. With all the new horses, I had them add to the soldier’s stables too.”

Aziraphale leans around to catch a glimpse of the new addition, but the rain is too forceful.

“We didn’t have proper materials,” Crowley continues, nearly shouting over the storm, “I hope it doesn’t fell over.”

They run under the second gateway that separates the garrison from their home. 

“My dear, I’m so proud of you for taking the lead on these things!” Aziraphale exclaims and holds the cloak up again once they near the end of the entrance tunnel. 

“It was not well received,” Crowley admits. “I had to throw my weight around a bit.”

Aziraphale frowns. “I am proud of you for that as well, yet disappointed they did not listen to one of the lords of the manor.” 

Crowley doesn’t argue, but the prince can see the way his jaw tightens that such ownership may have been part of the argument with other people.

They run up the steps to the wicket and throw up the smaller door. The foyer is empty, save for a few people sitting together playing cards on the floor. They all jump up and curtsey or bow as Crowley pulls the door shut tight.

“Now, now,” Aziraphale argues, slinging his wet cloak over his arm, “it’s much too late for such. As you were.” He takes Crowley’s hand, then passes them without another word. They climb the stairs to their rooms in silence. 

The fire in the drawing-room is down to dark embers and the lanterns have been left to burn until the wicks need trimming. The light in the room is dull and cloudy. On the closest lamp, Crowley twists the knob and the flame dies away. 

Aziraphale sets to work on his armor. Each piece is set on the long table behind the sofa. Crowley, on the other hand, heads for the bedroom. Aziraphale hears the staccato clang of the iron poker and the fluttering of ashes brushed away. Once he is out of his uniform, he hangs his wet woolens over his office chair and strides naked and chilly into the bedroom. 

Crowley kneels by the fire, which pours of delicious heat. He is still in his wet clothes.

“My darling, you’ll catch your death!” the prince exclaims and hauls Crowley to his feet. 

He yanks the henley over his head and Crowley laughs. The shirt hits the floor with a wet plop. Crowley toes off his boots and shucks his breeches and socks. All these items lay in a sodden pile by the fire. Crowley gives a whole body shiver and throws himself into Aziraphale’s arms. They stand there, pressed against one another as if this will help warm their naked, wet skin. Crowley kisses his partner slowly and sensuously. Aziraphale chuckles and pulls back.

“Pajamas, my darling boy,” the prince declares affectionately. 

He pulls them back to the pile they left on the bed hours before. They dress quickly, lock their bedroom door, and slither back into their bed. Aziraphale turns the lamp off with a rotation of the knob and then pulls the bed curtains closed. Even through the thick velvet curtains, they can hear the storm rage.

Crowley wraps around him with another shiver. “I heard that Michael has retreated.”

Aziraphale hums the affirmative. “If it’s a ploy, then we’ve fallen for it.”

“Béḃinn said that you should attack during the storm,” Crowley remembers cautiously. 

Aziraphale strokes Crowley’s back. “She also said that Michael would take the Eastern Gate during the typhoon, but that isn’t so.”

“I wonder if the plan changed,” Crowley offers thoughtfully.

The idea stretches over Aziraphale’s weary mind, but he cannot focus. Instead, he lets his eyes drift shut and sleep claim him.

The late morning comes. The typhoon has gained strength in those late hours. The sky is tinged green and the trees bow and creak in the wind. The generals and their troops have nothing new to report. With the storm beating on the castle walls, there is nothing to do but wait. Aziraphale worries that is the cause of his troubles. He watches the gales ripple over the field grass from their drawing-room window. 

“Do you think the storm is worse because I missed my chance?” he asks Crowley.

Crowley doesn’t answer and Aziraphale wonders if his partner has even heard him. He turns to face the fireplace. The companion sits cross-legged in an armchair by the fire. An altar cloth dangles down his leg as he embroiders one side. Crowley pulls his needle through the satin with a series of smooth stitches. It’s apparent, however, that the companion is considering his answer.

“Any other time, Béḃinn has told me what to do vaguely. Timing and opportunity were up to me. Extending the storm may be to our advantage—you can gather more intel or prepare your people better.” 

Crowley’s needle pierces the cloth again in rice-sized stitches. “I don’t think deities change the plan once it’s in motion.”

“Indecision is only for us mortals?” Aziraphale questions and walks closer to the fire. 

“Maybe so?” Crowley replies uncertainly.

“I was raised to believe that the gods’ minds and actions ineffable,” the prince comments, touching the sigil on Crowley’s temple lovingly. “I find that may not be the case in reality.”

Crowley leans slightly into his touch. “The day I was initiated into her service, I was told that the goddess was jealous and demanding. Now, I’d say that’s too simple, but that it’s the best we can do to understand their emotions.” He begins another stitch. 

“Immortals have different depths,” Aziraphale says with a light chuckle. “Perhaps.”

Crowley’s line of stitches seems to be the quill of the King’s crest. It glitters gold. He pauses his embroidering as a messenger knocks on the door.

“Come,” Aziraphale calls and watches the messenger bow and offer the leather folder. “Where did this come from?” 

The messenger stands at attention, “The gatehouse guards, Your Grace.”

Aziraphale nods and unties the leather cord. It’s a quick note that shares the increasing wind speed but lacks any tactical news. “That is all, thank you.” The messenger bows and takes his leave.

“Nothing useful?” Crowley asks.

“I don’t know what I expected. It’s coming down too hard to see anything. If Michael were right outside our gates we’d probably still be unable to see her.” 

He paces to his desk and tosses the leather folder onto it. Correspondence sits in untidy piles along with three quills and an inkwell. A hastily down map sticks out of a drawer. Books line the back of the desk and lean against their neighbors. Some are even piled on top of these. He should sit down and work.

He hears Crowley rise behind him and enter the bedroom. Aziraphale lifts parchment only to set it down again unseen. His eye is constantly drawn to the storm outside the window. His mind drifts.

After a short while, he hears soft music begin from inside the bedroom. He follows the chiming tune. A music box clinks it’s simple, but rhythmic song. 

Crowley has changed from his suit. He now stands before the prince in a sheer, floaty skirt that brushes the tops of his bare feet. The fabric is pink and glitters with gold beads and sequins. When he stands in front of the light from the lantern, Aziraphale can see his shapely legs and red lace panties. He has painted green vines across his forehead that wind around the silver chalk of his brow. He’s also added green and silver embellishments to the divinely wrought tattoos on his chest. Besides the gold ring that Aziraphale gifted him, his body is bare. 

He dances with each note’s delicate pluck as the comb rotates. It’s not a beautiful song to dance to, but Crowley treats it as if it’s an orchestra. He is fluid with each sweep of his arms and hips. The gauzy skirt billows and swings like he does. Aziraphale is entranced. He watches each ripple of muscle and rustle of fabric.

The music stops and Crowley slows. He locks eyes with the prince and smiles sweetly. “Dance with me, angel?”

He holds out his hand and Aziraphale considers it. His body hurts from the past hours. His heart hurts from the destruction he’s seen in his corner of the land. His mind hurts from too many questions. He longs for answers or respite from his guilt. 

When he takes his partner’s hand and steps into his embrace, he feels some of those feelings slide away. Crowley’s bare skin is cool to the touch. The companion might even be cold, although he’d never admit it. He wants to dance wearing this outfit, weather be damned. 

Aziraphale tucks Crowley tightly against him and rubs his palm down the consort’s bare spine. They sway together. This is not a dance taught in social circles, but one for private between two lovers. The fire burns low behind them and the storm beats on the window pane. The wind whirls and whistles in an endless hum. All this falls away. 

Instead, the prince leans into Crowley’s neck and presses a kiss to the skin he finds there. He lines the companion’s bare clavicle with kisses. Crowley gives a breathy sigh and twines his fingers through Aziraphale’s. It’s enough to make the prince feel drunk. He raises his eyes to meet Crowley’s and gives him an indulgent kiss.

“You are breathtaking,” he whispers against Crowley’s mouth.

“I do try, angel,” Crowley replies and nips his bottom lip wickedly. 

Aziraphale spins them a little. As he does, he sees Raphael in the doorway. Immediately, he pulls away and tries to step in front of Crowley.

“Trying to preserve his modesty, AZ?” the vet asks, mockingly. “A little late, I’d think, judging by his profession.”

“Don’t call me that,” Aziraphale says at the same time Crowley says, “You need to bow to the prince.”

Raphael’s face runs through several emotions from glares to apathy. Finally, he gives a micro attempt at a bow. “I came to tell you that the foal won’t make it through the night. She’s contracted some sort of infection—I want to put her out of her misery.”

Aziraphale swings around and collects Crowley back into his arms. He is not sure what he expects, but the completely blank look that floods his partner’s face is not it. 

“My darling, I am so sorry. She was a beautiful horse,” he says. He tries to keep his tone soft.

“I’ll dress and go see her,” Crowley says with a broken exhale, then excuses himself for the bath.

Raphael watches Crowley go, before facing the prince again. “I am sorry. We did try.”

Aziraphale nods solemnly but does not look at him. “I know. Thank you.”

This isn’t what the vet expected apparently, because he shuffles his feet and looks at the ceiling. “She was just weaned or in the process, I’m not sure which. The tiny thing in those winds just doesn’t have the stamina to heal. She’s in misery.”

Aziraphale doesn’t know what to say, so he gathers Crowley’s silk dressing gown from its hook and knocks on the door to the en suite.

“My dear?” 

It turns out that he won’t need the robe. He is already back in the trousers of his suit and pulling the oxford shirt back over his shoulders. 

“So much for getting your dance, huh?” he asks. His eyes are wet and he pinches at them with his thumb and index finger. “It’s stupid. All these people have lost everything and I’m upset about a horse. I hate horses.”

Aziraphale pulls Crowley to him and tugs his face into his neck. He curls his hand around the nape of the other man’s neck and holds him tightly. 

“That’s the way it is sometimes,” he whispers. “The more innocent the victim, the worst the pain.”

Something falls out in their bedroom and Aziraphale squeezes Crowley before leaving to investigate. Raphael stands at Crowley’s dressing table. A perfume bottle rolls under the wardrobe. The vet watches it roll away.

“Oops,” he says, but it lacks any actual emotion. 

Crowley swoops in and grabs the bottle from the floor. He sets it back on his dressing table. “You want to borrow some? Ask.” 

He stalks away, working to close the buttons of his shirt as he goes. The tears are burned away and he seems to be leaning into his irritation to save face. 

“Is there a reason you’re in our bedroom?” Aziraphale asks. He’s aiming for indifference, but it comes off catty instead. 

Raphael shrugs, “I used to be welcome in here.”

Aziraphale feels his cheeks burn. Crowley slides on a pair of sunglasses and studies the vet from behind the dark lenses.

“Carrying a torch for my husband, are you?” he asks. “I can’t say I blame you.”

“Husband?” Raphael chokes a laugh. “I heard you say that last night too. You know that requires commitment, right?”

Crowley offers a serpentine grin in return as if he is about to devour his prey. “And what a commitment is it. I’m his.”

Raphael considers this. “Until he gives you the boot.”

“What is this?” Aziraphale finally demands. “Are you telling me that after nearly fifteen years apart you’re suddenly regretting your choices?” Crowley looks uncertain and the prince tries to give him a reassuring smile. “Life moves on, Raphael. I am in love with this man. We are committed to each other.”

Raphael shakes his head. “No, sorry, you don’t get it. I have no interest in getting back with you, AZ. I do want what is owed to me.”

“Which is?” Crowley asks, his voice low and territorial. 

“I want my commission paid; I want to be a Commander. I want to be a gentleman in the nobility.” 

Aziraphale actually laughs. It’s a sudden, sharp thing. When it’s passed, he simply replies, “No.”

Raphael picks up another something from Crowley’s dressing table. He turns the tiny paintbrush over and looks at it from different angles. “What is this for?” he finally asks.

“Chalk, now get out of my bedroom,” Crowley snaps, but it’s said in a dangerous tone. “Because I’m sure you’re about to threaten to blackmail him or expose some secret. I don’t have time for that shit. Angel, if you have any skeletons in your closet then get ready, this dumb shit will make it public.” 

The vet sets down the chalk brush and stares at Crowley in a calculating manner. “I won’t blackmail him. I will get what I want though. My commission paid and I want to be a Lord.”

“And I want you to get out of my bedroom, but this isn’t the sort of thing that’s going to happen,” Crowley replies bitchily. 

“Dr. Raphael,” Aziraphale says, aiming for a balance of respect, decorum, and negation, “forgive me, but I cannot grant you what you desire. My brother the King is the only one with the power to make new nobility. And, as for the commission, I will not pay it for you. You spent enough of my money.”

Raphael’s eyes slide over to Crowley. “Then I’m sure that my little brother will pay the fee.”

There is a moment of pure free-fall in Aziraphale’s mind. At first, he thinks that Raphael is playing with the fact that they look alike. Then, he sees the veterinarian’s face. It’s contorted with rage.

“My father,” he spits, “ran off to the south when he tired of his family. He left my mother to die in the poor house. He sired that little whore and then fucked off somewhere else. My father’s bastard gets to be a fucking prince—and if that’s not enough, he’s with my ex.”

Crowley’s face is pale beyond ashen. He looks ready to fall over. Aziraphale lurches to his side and touches his arm. 

“My darling,” he starts, but Crowley just stares, unblinking at Raphael. “My dear boy.”

“Did you know?” Crowley asks, his voice a whisper. His eyes are huge behind his glasses and they lock into his own in near-panic. 

“No, Crowley, I didn’t,” he reassures. His voice has a tinge of hysteria to it. 

Raphael is trembling in anger. “Pay my fucking commission or I’ll tell everyone.”

Crowley suddenly seems to come back to his usual sharp self. His face muscles loosen and he rolls his shoulders in a devil-may-care shrug. “Tell them.” 

This surprises Raphael. His face betrays him. 

“As far as anyone knows, I’m a bastard son of a lady who fucked her stablehand. I was abandoned at a House as an infant. I have nothing to hide,” Crowley grins. “And if you think the prince enjoying a pair of half brothers at different points in his life is scandalous, then never visit a companion. An _oiran_ would blow your fucking mind.”

Crowley curls around Aziraphale and begins to slowly kiss his jawline. It’s possessive. “Now. Get the fuck out of our bedroom.”

Raphael’s cheeks heat and color with fresh anger. He storms past them and slams both their bedroom and their drawing room doors closed behind him. 

Once he’s gone, Crowley’s facade collapses, and his legs threatened to fail him. Aziraphale hugs his waist more securely. When the consort next speaks, his voice shakes.

“Bless Béḃinn, goddess of dancing light. I pray with my being as well as my voice. Grant us knowledge and awareness of our bodies, protect and keep us from harm. May my dances be pleasant and welcome offerings to you,” Crowley prays. His heart sounds shattered. “Hear my prayer.” He kisses his fingers and touches his sigil with these. 

Aziraphale strokes his hair and kisses his cheek. “I’ve never heard you pray.”

Crowley wipes at his eyes. “I’ve never been one for the pre-arranged ones.” 

“It’s very poetic,” Aziraphale says as he holds him protectively. “What he just did was cruel.”

“You think he’s telling the truth then?” Crowley ducks his head to hide from his lover. 

“He has no reason to lie,” Aziraphale says as he grasps Crowley’s chin and lifts it. “I am sorry he hurt you. I will see that he’s punished.”

Crowley shakes his head, but not violently enough to throw the prince’s grip from his chin. “I have a brother,” he whispers, brokenly.

Aziraphale lets his hand slide along his skull and onto the back of Crowley’s neck. He pulls him close again and rocks him soothingly. “And two sisters. Some nieces and nephews too, if I remember correctly.”

“Unbelievable.” Crowley gives an incredulous, wet laugh. “I bet our father told them about me. How else would he have known?”

“I couldn’t tell you,” Aziraphale admits, softly. He loosens his hold to let Crowley wipe his eyes a few times. “Are you glad to know?”

Crowley echoes Aziraphale’s words back to him, “I couldn’t tell you.”

They stand before the fireplace and Crowley soaks up the comfort like a sponge. Finally, he leans forward and kisses Aziraphale. 

“Thank you, angel,” he finally says. 

“Of course, my darling.” He finds a handkerchief in his pocket and offers it to him. Crowley steps away and politely blows his nose.

“I should go sit with her,” Crowley says, clearly thinking back to the foal. 

“I believe she’s quite sick,” Aziraphale says fretfully. “I want you to be prepared.”

Crowley opens the wardrobe and retrieves a waistcoat and woolen robe. “I’ll be with her then. No one should be alone when they die.” His voice is hardened with grief. 

Aziraphale pulls out his woolens and changes into them. “I’m going to go check in on the ramparts.”

“You mean you’re going to go stand in the rain because you feel guilty that others are?”

Aziraphale replies with a tight smile. “As you say.”

His armor is waiting for him in the drawing-room and he takes his time to cinch it on. He collects his sword and hangs it from his belt. This reminds him to look closer at Crowley’s waist.

“You’ll need your dagger, my darling.”

Crowley blanches. “I can’t—I can’t hurt her—I…” he stutters.

“Oh my darling, no! I meant to protect you. I would never ask you to do that!” he tugs Crowley back into his chest and kisses his forehead. “Forgive me, my dear. I didn’t mean to distress you.”

The companion leans into him and gives a shuttering sigh. Once his panic is subdued, he steps away to find the blade and his shawl. Aziraphale sets his helmet under his arm and chuckles when Crowley mirrors this action, only with his parrot-headed umbrella.

“I’m not sure what good that will do you,” Aziraphale jokes looking out the window. The wind rips across the land and rattles the windows. Crowley accepts this with a shrug but tucks the umbrella under his arm anyway.

They walk together, hands brushing, down to the main door. The foyer is full of citizens, all looking bored or worried. They offer deep and genuine bows. 

“Thank you, Your Grace,” one says, while another blesses them. 

“Of course, of course,” Aziraphale says as he smiles at them. 

He does not want this to go on too long, so he pulls his cloak hood up. Crowley follows the same movement with his shawl and they open the door into the rain. The prince takes Crowley’s arm under his and they run for the stables. The wind lashes at them and the rain bites. Once under the eave, they pause. 

“Would you like me to come with you?” Aziraphale asks.

“No need, but thank you.” Crowley leans down and kisses the prince. “You go stand in the rain, angel. I’ll see you soon.”

“Indeed,” Aziraphale replies, gently. He kisses Crowley again. “If you need me, send for me.”

Crowley nods and pushes the stable door open. Once he’s inside, Aziraphale spins on his heel and leans into the storm on his way to guard duty. The wind does not let up as through the puddles or on the rampart. The force is even stronger up along those heights. However, as his lover said, he would never leave guard duty to those below him without volunteering to do it himself. 

He stands above the main gate and leans on the wall as the torrent soaks through his cloak and into his armor again. The leather might be ruined after this campaign, he thinks. 

The time moves slowly as so often it does on sentry duty. Aziraphale studies the far treelike and the strange green hue of the clouds. He feels each sweep of a downpour as it blows over him. He listens to the hurricane’s scream. Then, after an hour or two, something catches Aziraphale’s attention. He leans into the wind to get a better look and then moves along the rampart. Other guards perk up and look in the same direction. All of them peer through the deluge.

There, through the trees, horses race away from the Keep. 

“They must have gotten lost from a farm,” the soldier yells from further down the wall. 

Aziraphale doesn’t answer but squints harder. It’s more horses than he expects—five or six—and they’re riding in formation. And the closer he looks, he’s sure they’ve got riders. They head East and suddenly Azirpahale’s stomach drops.

“Order the guard! Ready my horse!” He runs across the battlement and slides down the ladder, only holding on to the rails. His feet never touch the steps. 

General Mastema meets him at the gateway. “What is it, Your Grace?”

“Riders headed East—we can intercept them if we hurry!” 

Mastema races back into the rain yelling orders that are lost to the storm. A stablehand arrives with Bentley. He’s tacked, but very wet and grumpy.

“We ride hard!” Aziraphale orders and swings up into the saddle. The ten men with him nod eagerly and mount up. “General Mastema will follow us—let’s stop these scouts before they make it back to Michael!”

The drawbridge lowers and the portcullis rises with a rattle. The typhoon’s fury beats on them as they race after the riders. They’ve already got a significant lead on Aziraphale and his troops. He worries any hope of catching them is lost to the storm. 

The road opens up to the main trade highway between the two nations. It’s soggy from the endless sheets of rain. The wind changes directions and Aziraphale can make out the road distantly. He pulls on Bentley’s reigns and slows him. 

“Back to the Keep!” he orders. “If Michael’s troops are making camp in the temple then those riders will rejoin them before we catch them.”

The soldiers nod and turn their mounts around. The wind and rain are at their backs now. Aziraphale is glad to cross the drawbridge again. He pauses to call to Mastema.

“They’ve made too much ground. Gather the others—strategy meeting in an hour!” he demands. The ride in the storm has strengthens his resolve. He will meet Michael in this tempest.

He spurs Bentley up to his royal stable and jumps down just outside it. He pulls Bentley by the reigns into the building. A very young stablehand meets him there, but there is panic in his eyes.

Aziraphale feels his stomach knot. “Has the foal passed?” he asks as he removes his gloves.

The boy stares, openmouthed. “Lord Crowley’s foal?”

The prince tugs off his helmet and runs his hand through his wet hair. “Indeed. Did she go with peace?”

The boy takes Bentley’s reigns and continues to work his jaw in confusion. “The foal is fine?” he says, but it is phrased like a question. “She’s stronger than yesterday.”

Aziraphale frowns in confusion and walks past the groom to the stall where the foal is. She lays on clean hay under Crowley’s cloak. She looks up at home. Truly, she looks better than the previous day. Her coat is free of mud and her eyes are brighter.

“I don’t understand,” he says. “I was told she was dying.”

“My Lord,” the boy yelps. He loses his nerve, then begins again. “Your Grace, I couldn’t stop them. I tried.”

Aziraphale leans on the stall door but looks at the stablehand. “I’m afraid I don’t follow you, my dear boy.”

“They hit me, sir, to keep me quiet.”

Now the prince stands up, letting his posture straightens. “Who hit you, my lad?”

“The vets, sir, when they took him.”

The knot in Aziraphale’s stomach tightens in a new way. “Start again. Tell me from the beginning.”

“Dr. Raphael made me watch the cattle gate for riders. When they arrived, I told him, sir. Then I saw them and they were wearing Queen Michael’s colors! They took him, Your Grace. I tried to stop him but he hit me!”

Aziraphale looks around the stable. Leaned against the door is Crowley’s parrot-headed umbrella. Dread spreads into his gut.

“Who did Dr. Raphael take with Michael’s riders?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

“Lord Crowley, Your Grace!” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What. A. Week.   
> I forgot what teenagers + Halloween candy are like... then add in this stupid US election from fuck and I could drink. Self care, people. Look after yourselves.
> 
> P.S. I know NOTHING about horses. Anyone been around a foal and need to fact check me, I'm listening!


	11. Devotion and Alliances

Crowley enters the stable with a heavy heart. He sets his umbrella against the wall and prepares himself to say goodbye to the little horse. A young stablehand bows to him and gives a little wave.

“Your foal is right over here, Lord Crowley!” he waves the companion over to the third stall and unlatches the door. “She’s looking much better! I brushed her.”

Crowley’s heart aches. “She’s beautiful, lad.”

He enters and sinks down to his knees in the hay. She’s under the cloak he left the day before. The foal butts his hand with her head once he’s close. 

“Nothing to be afraid of, little one,” he whispers. “Just a storm.” His voice is thick. He looks up at the stablehand, “When did the vets plan to euthanize her?”

The stablehand’s eyes widen and he holds out his hands to stop Crowley. “Lord Crowley, please, I’ll take her! She’ll just need time to heal!” his voice is frantic.

“What do you mean? They said she’s too sick and she won’t make it through the night.”

The boy shakes his head vigorously, “No, she’s just fine, Lord Crowley.”

Crowley blinks in confusion then strokes the foal’s mane. “Huh.”

Crowley sits down properly and folds his legs like a pretzel. The foal curls over and lays her head on his knee. She gives a satisfied exhale and lets him stroke her mane. The stablehand stays close, clearly a bit nervous with the typhoon himself.

“Care to join us?” Crowley finally asks the kid.

The boy shakes his head no. “I’m supposed to be on guard.”

“Guarding what?” Crowley asks his eyes only on his little horse. “The puddles?”

“The cattle gate, my Lord.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “That seems like something that one of the soldiers should be doing.”

The boy pulls a mackintosh from a peg on the wall and slings it around him. He tugs on wellies and exchanges waves with the consort as he trudges out into the storm. The storm roars as he opens the door. 

“Well,” Crowley says, rubbing his thumb across the foal’s neck. His fingers card through her short mane as he does so. “You’ll need a name. How about Bonny? You’re a happy gal.”

She turns her dark eye up to him and snorts hot air. “Right. So no. Petal? Rosie? Poppy?”

For the next half hour, Crowley suggests several potential horse names. She does not respond to any of them.

“Right. I guess we’ll keep at it then, won’t we, duck?” He means it as an endearment, but her ears perk up and she rolls in the hay to sit up and look at him closer. “What? Really? Duck?”

She tosses her head. Crowley throws back his head and laughs. “All right, my girl. Duck it is.”

The door to the stable opens and Crowley stretches up to see who it is. He’s not quite tall enough to see over the wall, however.

“Given up on the guarding, then?” he calls. 

He can see multiple people enter and Crowley rolls out from under Duck. “I’ll be right back,” he tells her. He pulls his cloak tightly around her and rubs a circle with his thumb on her forehead. “Angel, is that you?”

He stretches and strides over to the door of the stall. The rain pelts in the open stable door. Crowley leans over the stall door and looks around. His eyes lock on the shadows of four men, all wearing Michael’s colors under drenched oilskin cloaks.

“Guards!” he yells, but the words are cut off as sharp pain jabs from his neck. He reaches up and touches the end of a needle. Raphael’s thumb depresses the injection of horse sedative. 

“Night, night,” his half-brother says. His voice is devoid of emotion.

The next hours are blurry, half-remembered scenes. Harsh wind sipping at his hair. Hanging across a horse with the saddle digging into his middle. Rain running off his face. Blood rushing to his head. Someone binding his wrists together with rope. The loom of white marble. 

When he finally, drunkenly, comes to he’s lying on a cold stone. His vision swims and he blinks in rapid succession. It does nothing to focus the room but gives him some vague impressions. It’s a large, white room. Marble, if he had to guess. His ankles and wrists are bound and he is soaking wet. He shivers feebly and it sends him reeling. 

There are always hidden blessings from his tutorage in a companion House. For one, he was trained to keep his wits about him, even under the influence of a substance. Crowley is very aware that he has been drugged and kidnapped by his partner’s enemies. This is a perilous situation without the worst hangover he’s ever had. He struggles to get his thoughts in order.

He moves slowly and looks about him. Even with his limited sight, he trembles at what he sees. An army lounges about the room, each soldier bored. They’re sharpening weapons or pacing like caged animals. This is a dangerous place to be in such an altered state. Already, it’s clear that the soldiers have war-wrath and no place to burn it. They’re turned on the citizens who came to escape the storm. Crowley can see smashed belongings and stolen goods. A fire burns where none should in the building. A sheep has been slaughtered close to it and the blood congeals on the floor. The meat turns on an improvised spit. A little shepherd girl looks on, tearstained. Her diminished flock clusters in a corner.

More heartbreaking, of course, are the people themselves. Many of them huddle together, not unlike the sheep. Crowley can see a man instinctively trying to hide his young wife behind their children. The companion knows why. Laying some feet away from him, a young man wraps his arms around his knees. His tunic is stained and his breeches shredded. An older woman wraps the man in a blanket and coaxes him away. Crowley wonders how many more will be forcibly taken by the time the storm passes. 

“Heathens,” he hisses, but his tongue will not cooperate. It comes out as a sloppy grunt. 

He shakes his head in annoyance. This proves to be a mistake. Combined with the horse tranquilizer aftereffects, he thinks he might be sick. Crowley squeezes his eyes closed and tries to tune out the sudden input he receives. The thick scent of incense, urine, and unwashed people makes his pulse drum in his ears and his stomach roll. He groans and turns onto his hip. 

“Ah, the whore is awake.” The loud voice comes from beyond his murky sight. It’s regal and feminine. Crowley makes the logical leap. 

Michael strides closer to him and people part before her. Even as the room around his seems to spin, he makes out her burgundy robe and dove gray woolen dress. There is no gentle bump under this fabric, but he knows a child grows within her.

“This was not exactly the plan,” she continues, staring down at his indifferently. “We were to take Fellstone Keep and capture you there, but no matter. We’ll make up the tactical advantage some other way.”

Crowley forces his heavy arms under him and he tries to rise on his bound arms by using his elbows. His legs do not seem to get with the program and, even as he tries to sit up on his knees, they give out. He collapses face-first back into the floor. It’s then that he feels the floor’s scalding sting.

“It burns,” he moans, surprised, and tries to roll his cheeks and nose away from the stone.

“Yes, well,” Michael intones, bored, “you’re in the temple of the Morrigan. I’m sure that someone who was initiated into another temple would be feeling that blasphemy.”

At these words, Crowley tries to crawl backward. It’s a panicked thing. He must get away from the altar. His bound feet and hands, in addition to his semi-drugged state, make him teeter and tumble again. He tries again. Michael sniffs at him, then disappears from his limited sight. People’s voices flourish around them.

Crowley pays no attention to any of this. He’s in agony. He continues to try to escape from the burning floor in his haze of near-sighted intoxication. Every inch brings searing pain. It’s more than just the burning sensation or the intense cold all over his wet person, but his headache and nausea. He continues his desperate, worm-like slither backward away from Michael. 

He stops when his boot collides with something. He pushes back again before letting his torso turn and study what has stopped his progress. Behind him is a series of white marble steps bracket a similar ramp. These lead up to the altar. Here, all this time, he’d been hoping to get away from the temple. Instead, he’d moved steadily closer. 

His vision improves, possibly due to his increased hysteria. Morrigan’s temple is nothing like Béḃinn’s. For one, the size is dramatically different. Béḃinn’s was only a quarter of this huge room if Crowley’s spotty vision is correct. This temple, especially this close to the altar, smells of blood instead of sex. He shivers and scoots back the way he came. 

“My Lady, forgive me,” he begs quietly. The words all slur together as his tongue refuses to cooperate.

In his defense, he had hoped to apologize for being in another deity's temple, not to awaken that other goddess. This is not Crowley’s day. 

Three priestesses-in-training drift to the marble steps. They are young women, all dressed in draped, white tunics. Crowley sees them clearly and his heart hurts for them each. Each girl has been brutalized. One girl’s tunic hangs off her body so that one breast and shoulder are exposed. To her right, the bottom half is of the skirt is spotted in blood. The girl to the left has wrapped her tunic around herself like a blanket. Bruises stain her legs. 

When they speak, it is in tandem. Their eyes flash blue-white fury. They host divine power.

**_ HOW DARE YOU BRING A GODDESS-TOUCHED BEAST INTO MY HALLS. _ **

The girls glare at him and they speak with the voice of the Morrigan. They each raise their right hand and point at him. Crowley screams hoarsely as the Morrigan’s curse rips through his clothes and burns away the fabric that covers his tattoos. 

Crowley pants as the fire dies away. People, mostly soldiers, gather to get a better look at him. He struggles to return to his bound knees. His stomach turns again and he has to take deep breathes through his mouth to keep from vomiting. 

As he does this, someone comes to the altar. The soldiers part. Some bow. Michael stands over him and glares down at him. 

“Forgive me, goddess Morrigan. I did not know. Shall I kill your enemy?” She waves over one of those soldiers who bowed and pulls his sword from his scabbard. “I will sacrifice him on your altar.”

The three girls on the stairs scream unearthly shrieks. It rattles the bones in Crowley’s head. Multiple men step away from the altar in alarm and some citizens begin to cry. The scream tapers off and the priestesses-in-training speak again.

**_ THIS WILL NOT UNDO THE DESECRATION OF MY TEMPLE.  _ **

“Then we’ll kill him in Janus’s temple,” one of the soldiers jokes. 

Morrigan does not take this response well. The three girls raise their arms toward him and he falls dead. His body falls next to Crowley among mutters of alarm. 

**_ YOU HAVE DEFILED MY CLERICS AND DISGRACES MY PRIESTESSES. YOU HAVE TAKEN WHAT IS NOT FREELY GIVEN IN MY HALLS.  _ **

Michael steps forward, unafraid. “These are the deeds of my husband’s men, not of me. I will honor you with my victory over King Gabriel. I will sacrifice this whore for you. He is the servant of your great enemy Béḃinn.”

The three girls turn their eyes onto Crowley again. 

**_ WE WILL ENSURE THAT BEBINN KNOWS THIS. I WILL WASH AWAY HER TOUCH MY OWN IN HOLY WATER. _ **

The girls snap and Crowley’s torture begins. The sopping wet clothes burn him as the rainwater purifies in the Morrigan’s special brand of holy water. Until this point, his panic has kept him from realizing just how completely soaked he was. His hair is wet. His skin is damp. His clothes, from throat to feet, are saturated. All of this burns. His skin steams from the heat of it and he feels it blister. He screams are agony. The pain bursts out like waves.

“Stop it!” 

The waves slow and the pain dissipates. Crowley loses his ineffective war with his nausea. He is sick all over the floor. He collapses, nearly into his vomit, but pulls away at the last second. He shivers with pain and moans. Absently, he notes that he’s lost control of his bladder. His already wet trousers and pants are soaked anew. 

“Stand back, Raphael,” Michael growls. “You delivered him to us. What did you think this would entail?”

The priestesses-in-training all cock their heads to the side, like confused puppies. They know what others do not. The Morrigan sounds doubtful when they speak.

**_ YOU DELIVERED YOUR OWN BROTHER TO HIS ENEMY? _ **

Michael recoils at the news. The soldiers talk among themselves, hurling disparaging looks toward the veterinarian.

“He’s not my brother!” Raphael shouts, angrily. “He’s my father’s bastard.”

Crowley tries to make himself smaller, but moving makes the burns flare up. He gives a little cry and tries again. Michael hums thoughtfully and studies them both in profile. She taps the sword blade on the stone floor.

“Yet, you could be twins.” She twists and grabs Raphael by the collar. “It’s time to decide your loyalties.” She shoves him to his knees. “Before the Morrigan and my crown, declare your allegiance to me, even over your own blood.” 

Using the toe of her boot, Michael shoves Crowley and he weakly falls onto his back. He pants as he shivers with pain and cold. Raphael watches this dispassionately. He bows his head.

“I am your obedient servant, Queen Michael.”

Michael studies Raphael, “You deny your kin, even when he is goddess-touched.” Raphael begins to argue, but Michael interrupts, “Such does not speak to one’s fidelity.” 

“I will strive to make you believe me then,” he decides.

Michael thrusts the sword into his hand. “Kill him then.”

Crowley panics. He tries to roll onto his side again, but the dead soldier lies there and stops him. He tosses his body weight the other way and tries to get his feet under him. His skin aches. Tears leech from his eyes with every muscle pull.

Raphael grabs him by the rope that binds his hands and hauls him to his feet. Crowley swoons as the dizziness overtakes him. Raphael forces him to climb the steps up to the altar. It’s not easy with his ankles bound and he must shuffle and hop, all through the sting and pulse of pain. In a sort of hysterical craze, Crowley counts the steps and looks about him. He notes the door to the left and the hanging art overhead. 

The Morrigan’s host studies him as he passes. 

**_ WE WILL SEE HIS BLOOD RUN. YET EVEN THE DEATH OF MY ENEMY WOULD NOT UNDO THE DAMAGE TO MY TEMPLE. _ **

The Morrigan finally declares. Michael glares in general at the soldier’s who encircle her. 

“Indeed. What will you have, Mighty Morrigan, to soothe your anger?”

**_ THE DEFILERS WILL PAY FOR THEIR MISDEEDS.  _ **

“We will punish them,” Michael declares, but the priestesses-in-training smile dangerously.

Power pulses from their hands and soldiers fall dead to the floor. Michael’s eyes widen as she takes in the fallen men.

“That’s easily a third of my army!” she says, in a mixture of anger and surprise. 

The Morrigan callously dismiss this.

**_ YOU WILL WORSHIP ME WITH YOUR VICTORY AND BE GRACIOUS THAT NOT ALL WERE SMITED. _ **

Crowley gives a hysterical giggle. “Smited? Smote? Smitten?” He wavers as his legs threatened to fail beneath him.

His vision is improved enough to take in his surroundings better. The altar for the Morrigan is wide. The stairs up to it allow easy access for two-legged people, but the center ramp is for animal sacrifices. When they arrive on the altar, they stand before a long, narrow trough that drains into the floor. Easy to collect the blood, Crowley thinks. He shivers again.

Raphael guides Crowley to stand in front of the trough.

**_ SLICE HIS THROAT. SPILL HIS BLOOD ONTO OUR ALTAR AND LET BEBINN KNOW HE WAS KILLED IN MY SERVICE WITH HER MARKINGS BURNED FROM HIS SKIN. _ **

Crowley’s hands shake as he brings them both to his mouth. He kisses his fingers, then ducks his head so that he can brush them to his temple one final time. It’s painful—it’s never hurt to do that before. It drags tears from his eyes.

“Forgive me, my Lady,” he whispers. Raphael’s sword glints in his peripheral vision, so Crowley closes his eyes. He feels his half-brother lean toward him.

“When I cut your feet free, run,” Raphael whispers. 

Crowley’s eyes fly open. He has no time to respond, however, because the blade swings through the air and severs the cord at his ankles. With a stumble, Crowley takes off, like a sprinter from his mark. 

He nearly falls back down the steps he came up, but makes it to the door he saw near the altar. It swings open and he dashes in. It’s a hallway for holding the sacrificial animals. Today, it’s lined with citizens. Some stand when they see him and others cower. He races past them, propelled by adrenaline. A tall woman stands up and tries to stop him. She gets into his path and holds up her hands.

“You’re injured, sir,” she says, but he dodges around her and continues to run down the hall. Other doors open into it from the main temple and soldiers pour out. He leans forward and tries to run faster.

He slips on liquid at the corner and slides into the wall. A man offers his hand to help Crowley stand, but he ducks around him instead. He’s through the door and finally at the entrance to the temple. It’s lined with Tuscan columns that look out over the temple complex’s courtyard. The companion bounds into the courtyard, splashing through puddles and ignoring the push of wind and rain. He’s losing the lead he had on the soldiers, however. He swerves right, but with his still-woozy brain, it leaves him lightheaded. 

There is another temple entrance here, but he hurries past it. Additional soldiers see him and begin to give chase as well. He slips on mud and collapses. Crowley’s still-bound hands are of little use to help him stand again, but he claws at the sodden ground all the same. Three soldiers loom over him, catching their breath.

“Gotcha!” one declares, victoriously. 

Then something booms in the distance.

“Was that a canon?” another asks, wiping ineffectually at the rain dripping into his eyes.

“Nah, just the wind from the storm,” one argues. 

Crowley is more than a little certain that this idiot is wrong. It’s his angel. And if Aziraphale is already here, then Crowley needs to be with him. As they look into the distance, Crowley jumps back up and takes off again. He is far less sure on his feet than his first mad dash, which, notably, was not steady. His vision tilts and spots danced before his eyes. The wind shrieks in his ear and then changes directions. He hadn’t noticed how it drove at his back before this, but now he’s trying to run into it. 

There is another sharp boom. It sounds closer—but it might be the direction of the wind. A squad of men in Azrael’s colors closes in the companion from one side. They’re armed. Crowley gasps and ducks away, but one of them grabs him by his burned tunic. The cloth gives way with a rip, but it harshly brushes against the burns on his heated skin. Crowley sucks in a hiss and tries to pull free of the garment, even as it continues to rub painfully at his raw, blistered body.

Just then a cannonball rips through the air. The soldiers fall back in alarm and Crowley lunges forward. The tunic tears free, taking with it some of the top layers of his dermis, he’s sure. Shirtless, he runs toward the cannonball’s origin. 

“We’re under attack!” one of the soldiers screams as Crowley limps past him. 

He’d like to keep running, but his body simply won’t allow it. Instead, he legs it as best he can, albeit rather slowly. Crowley feels the sharp cut of the rain. It’s cool on his heated skin, but the force that it drives into him negates any help it could provide. Another cannonball zips through the air and one of the temples groans from the impact. 

Outside the temple complex, the wind is even stronger. The rain pours down so forcefully that he cannot see. There is a real chance that he is going to be killed by Aziraphale’s troops. Crowley glances behind him, but cannot see well enough in the storm if anyone is still following him. He stops and takes stock of his situation. Another cannonball strikes the wall behind him and he reconsiders where he is standing. He walks, aiming for confident, forward.

The trees that line the temple complex groan and heave in the wind. His hair blows the same way and, for the first time since he woke up, Crowley wonders where his headscarf has made off to. Vaguely, he thinks he can see people several yards in front of him. 

He raises his bound hands overhead and begins to yell, “Aziraphale! Aziraphale! Angel!” The wind is in his face, so he doubts they can hear him. He continues forward, slowly. “Please don’t shoot me! I’m one of you guys!” 

A cannon fires and Crowley can see the smoke and the flames to his side. A soldier rushes forward with a brush and scrapes the inside of the barrel.

“I’m Lord Crowley! Aziraphale’s spouse! King Gabriel is my king and brother-in-law! Please don’t kill me!” he shouts again, still moving forward.

Then out of the curtain of rain, soldiers rush toward him swords drawn. “I’m Aziraphale’s  _ oiran _ ! Please don’t—“

“CROWLEY!” Aziraphale’s voice carries on the wind, emotional and strong. 

And he bursts into Crowley’s vision. He’s breaking his own troop’s line and racing toward him. Crowley can’t help it, he gives an absolute sigh of relief.

“CROWLEY! BEHIND YOU!” The words are nearly lost in the storm and they take longer than they should for Crowley to process them. But then, he ducks and falls to the ground.

Michael’s sword slashes through the air. A cannon fires and the shock of firelight makes her look dangerous and demented. The rain has flattened her hair and her dress is dark gray from the water. Then she raises her blade again and Aziraphale’s sword meets hers. He shoves her backward and moves to protect Crowley’s prone form. 

Michael screams something that the companion cannot understand and attacks. A cannon fires and the smoke drifts over them. Crowley braces his elbows as best he can in the boggy turf and tries to get up to his knees. His body is screaming at him. The torrent that pours onto his skin equally alleviates and aggravates the burns in turns. It’s torture. He struggles to get one leg bent under him but does. As he plants one foot on the ground, Michael drives Aziraphale back. The prince holds her, but then his boot slides in the mud. While struggling to regain his stance, he trips over Crowley and the two go down with a splash of mud. 

Crowley’s head hits the ground hard. His eyes struggle to open. Over the torrent of rain and stormy gale, he hears a high-pitched, wailing frequency. He feels hot all over and his stomach lurches. He rolls over, dislodging Aziraphale and dry heaves. All around his vision, white, gray, and black spots dance. 

Another cannonball rips through the storm with a shower of flame and smoke. Crowley can only see the flash of light. He does not hear the explosion. He closes his eyes and sees the after-image of the cannon on the insides of his eyelids. Then someone grabs him by the hair and yanks him backward. 

A blade sits against the skin of his throat and Crowley wobbles to stay on his knees where Michael holds him. He blinks hard, trying to will away the spots and the temporary blindness they cause. 

Aziraphale stands before him. Reinforcements stand behind him and judging by the way they’re all taking up arms, the same must be true of Michael now. 

All Crowley can hear is the frequency in his ears. He takes very deep, deliberate breaths in an attempt to clear this. Slowly, the world filters back in.

“—you’ve fired on a temple. I’d say we’re even,” Michael yells over the storm.

“And you’ve defiled a temple,” Crowley snarls back, surprising both Aziraphale and Michael. “Raping and murdering all without prayer. Your troops are going to have Janus and Dagna after them too if the scene from the Morrigan’s temple was any guide.”

“Crowley, my darling, please do shut up and stop antagonizing the woman with a sword to your throat,” Aziraphale orders bitchily. 

Michael tightens her hold on Crowley’s hair and yanks it forward so that his neck strains to keep away from the blade’s edge. Aziraphale swallows and takes an uneasy step forward. 

“Fellstone Keep for his life,” she yells into the wind. 

Aziraphale is ready to give over the keys. Crowley can see it in his eyes. He tries to glance down at the sword and see just how close it is to his skin. Then, the strangest thing happens. The rain stops. 

Or it does for Crowley. 

He blinks the water from his eyes and looks around. Everyone is frozen, including the prince. The air takes on a shimmering quality and he tries to look around for Béḃinn, but Michael’s grip on his hair is like a stone. 

Then, he looks ahead. Tied to the Unity Ribbon on Aziraphale’s sword handle is Béḃinn’s feather. It glows like phosphorescence against the dull of the storm. She can’t intervene directly, but she can help.

Crowley studies the feather and lets his brain slowly catch up. He raises his bound hands to the blade and tentatively saws the cord against Michael’s sword. When it does not move, even a hair, he redoubles his efforts. The rope slices free and he rubs his wrists. 

Free of this, he reaches up and begins to extract his hair from the woman’s grip. Thus done, he ducks under her sword and staggers to his feet. He kisses his fingers and touches his sigil. 

“Is it still there, my Lady?” he asks, suddenly heartbroken. “Has she taken this away?”

The light from the feather pulses. He touches this with the same deference and stands behind Aziraphale. He tries to pull the prince back, but he is unable to move him from his frozen stance. 

The rain begins to trickle down again and just a breath later, the storm restarts. The battle lines charge and a cannon fires. Michael and Aziraphale both react with shock when Crowley disappears from second to another.

“I’m here, angel,” he states loudly. 

It’s like a switch is thrown. Aziraphale charges forward and engages with a war cry. Other soldiers launch forward and Crowley turns tail and runs behind the cannon line. The storm roars and the winds shift every other moment. Sometimes he can hear the clang of metal and other times catch the scent of gunpowder. The ever-constant is the drone of the wind and the splash of the rain. He makes his way, unsteady, toward the medics. He knows, somewhere back behind the line, will be the generals and their safe camp. The world pitches again and Crowley falls on his face in the marshy earth. 

He considers standing up. He considers vomiting again. Both sound like too much energy. He lets his eyes drift closed and consciousness slides away. 


	12. That Which Constitutes as a Path

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am guessing on the 16 total chapters at this point... that might change. Thanks for reading!

_Oiran_ Houses are members of the Companion’s Guild—a national group that sets the exacting standards that a companion must adhere to. They are beholden only to the Temples of Béḃinn. As only two of these remain, one in the capital and the other in the Southern district, the Guild is strict. The _Oiran_ Houses are only to take the best; there are no second rate companions.

To find the best, Houses adopt a multitude of children. So many, in fact, that the Houses sometimes look like orphanages. As the children age, the population dwindles. Perhaps that one cannot paint or another cannot sing—these are farmed out to others. Houses with ethics check where the children are sent. Some look the other way as the children are sent into slavery.

The House of Acheron, even with its closet of skeletons, has better ethics than most. Lord Lucifer, its current Head, has no time for mediocrity. Even still, no child under his watch has become a prostitute or slave. He builds a name for himself among the Guild and they begrudgingly give him respect. They do sneer when he takes in the more helpless cases as “trainees”, knowing full well that the children have no chance of becoming initiates.

It began early. Lucifer, a trainee himself, found Beelze on the streets. They were five and he himself only thirteen. The trainee Matron was not pleased when he brought them to the House.

“She is your responsibility!” Matron shouted.

In time, the pronoun would better match Beelze, but they were little still.

Lucifer looked after them. He trained Beelze as he learned. He found a mat for them to sleep on next to his cot. They slept there for seven months. Then, he brought home Dagon.

Dagon was all that Beelze was not. She had a natural grace and elegant hands. She took immediately to ballet, while Beelze needed additional practice. She took over the mat next to the cot and Beelze sorted out their own sleeping arrangements.

Beelze made a name for themselves when they discover the beaten infant on the step to the House. Matron was not pleased, but collected the baby and added him to the cot with the other three. Beelze had no time for infants, but Crowley was special. He was theirs. They watched him as he grew.

They were just two faces among the twenty or so other trainees. At nine, Beelze woke before the dawn to haul water and prepare breakfast. If they got their portion of the chores done before the others, then they could beat the line for the piano. They learned to play silently after-hours, with their fingers barely touching each key. This kept the hammers from striking the notes. Instead, they hummed softly along with the sheet music. They practiced this way for so long that they could hear the notes in their head as they read. Crowley learned from their skill. They were accomplished musicians before the other trainees.

When Beelze was eleven, the Guild agreed to accept Lucifer as an initiate. He was one of the youngest ever at nineteen. Beelze helped him bathe and knelt at his feet to help lace his slippers. He was striking in his initiate whites.

“I will not be made a fool of,” his older brother, a companion from their House, instructed. “You will be hard on the altar without some stupid ring or device. Béḃinn does not accept lazy gifts.”

The other brother straightened his white and pink robes. “You’ve prepared yourself, then?”

Lucifer rolled his eyes. “Yes. Obviously.”

The other brother grabbed him by the chin and forced Lucifer to look at him. “Don’t get an attitude now. I could refuse to take you on the altar, then you’d be homeless—a failure.” Lucifer swallowed. “You will come when told to. You will bow low and accept your first chalk with grace. You will take your sigil when the goddess gives it.”

Lucifer gave a sharp nod and the other brother strode out of the room. Beelze kept their eyes on the floor.

“You didn’t hear any of that,” Lucifer instructs, his voice stern.

Beelze only nodded. Lucifer was accepted and returned with a dragon tattooed on his temple. No longer allowed to wear virginal white, he took to his duties like a duck in water.

And in three years, he was the talk of the town. The House gave Lordship to him—he could direct any of the _oiran_ in the House of Acheron to do his bidding.

He took four patrons and no more. He also took six trainees into his personal study. Beelze and Dagon were among these. Beelze admitted that his dance practices were hell. He would enter with a cane and rap the floor with it should their moves not be to his approval. He was not lenient with punishments either. That cane allowed him to strike them without moving from where he stood. He took them to bed as well and trained them in the sensual arts.

Beelze learned his body like they learned their own. “It’s just sex,” he would say, but he was charismatic. A connection was made. Dagon believed she had fallen in love.

“Lucifer is charming, you know?” she’d gush after returning from his rooms. “He takes care of me.”

“And you take care of him—it’s work,” Beelze would remind her. “It’s just sex.”

Even as they said it, however, something squeezed in their heart. They did have a connection with Lucifer and it felt strong when they were alone in bed.

That shattered when Lucifer declared that Dagon was his little sister. He took her training more seriously than the others. To ease the blow, they hand trained Crowley in the same manner that Lucifer had done for them. Together they would spend hours at the barre or the harp. Their easels always hosted art and their looms bore blankets. While Dagon learned the intimate arts of hosting patrons, Beelze and Crowley became accomplished in other areas.

Lucifer noticed.

He cornered them one day in the dance studio. “I believe you have a sibling connection,” he tells them. “I’d like to see that grow. Strip, both of you.”

Beelze felt a stone fall into their stomach. They knew where this was going. Crowley, used to body checks, untied his robe and shimmed out of it. Beelze moved with more grace; Lucifer watched them remove each layer.

“Beelze, on your back,” he ordered, with a vague wave at the dance mat. As they stretched out, they saw Crowley come to the realization

Crowley braced over them, on his knees, as directed. His eyes were wide and skittish. He bit his lip. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” he admitted.

“Obviously,” Lucifer groaned and pulled a chair over to their side. “Get hard. Stick in in them. It’s the first time, you’re not expected to be good. I just need to know if you’re worth keeping around.”

The threat was directed at Crowley, but Beelze knew it was also for them. The sex was perfunctory. Crowley kissed well but trembled all through their coupling. Lucifer seemed encouraged, however, and tapped his cane on Crowley’s naked ass.

“You’ll do,” he decided and walked out of the dance studio.

Crowley collapsed backward. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he repeated, but Beelze crawled over to him and put their finger to his lips.

“This is our job. It’s just sex.” They took a deep breath and pulled him close to them. “Now, we’re going to take a moment and talk about what felt good and what didn’t. Then we’re going to do it again.”

“What? Again?” Crowley cried, outraged.

“Lucifer thinks you and I could become _oiran_ , that’s what this was about. We have to show improvement,” Beelze says, steadily. Crowley gave a sharp nod. Just like with the music, they practice and improve.

Weeks later, Lucifer, clothed in pink and white, took Dagon to the temple. She became an _oiran_ with the Pieces sigil on her temple. The same afternoon, he took Beelze and Crowley to his bed. Sated, he laid back and stroked Beelze’s hair, then slapped Crowley’s ass.

“You’ve trained him some, I approve.”

Beelze smiled. “I will be the hardest working _oiran_ the House of Acheron has ever seen. I will bring us honor. This was my way of proving it—Crowley will be my little brother one day.”

Lucifer studied them. “Then I suppose you’ll need to be my younger sibling for this initiation season.”

Crowley grinned. “Congratulations, Beelze.”

Lucifer smacked his ass again. “Shut up, boy. In fact, I have something to teach you about how to keep your mouth occupied.”

And so Beelze became Lucifer’s little sibling. Crowley quietly trained between them and the Lord of the House, although Beelze knew Hastur and Ligur were also Lucifer’s special trainees.

“Does it ever bother you?” Crowley asked one day, as he poured water into the tub for them. “That we’re basically lacking any ability to say ‘no’?”

Beelze knew what he was really asking. Instead, they gave the party line. “A companion chooses who they bed. It’s just sex.”

Crowley stared into the bathwater. “It’s just sex with Lucifer, sure. But with you?”

Beelze studied him. He was a gangly teenager, nearly seventeen, with more grace than any of the other trainees combined. He looked up them nervously, then back into the depths of the tub.

“We do have a connection,” Beelze admitted. “It’s not love, not like that, little brother.”

Crowley met their eye. “Not for me either. But it’s not just sex, is it?”

Beelze remembered that moment, the way they felt Lucifer’s special connection. “No, it’s something more.”

Satisfied, Crowley bowed and left for more buckets of hot water. Beelze sat on the edge of the tub and traced their fingers through the steaming water. They never discussed it again.

Three months later, the Guild accepted Beelze as an initiate. Crowley helped them dress in white and twist their short bob into barrettes. This was the last time they’d leave the house with their hair uncovered and their brow missing chalk. Crowley pulled their robe shut and its hood up over their head. He bowed low, then slid down to his knees before them.

“Crowley?” they ask.

Crowley kissed his fingers and touched this to their feet. “Lady Béḃinn, goddess of companions, my sweet sibling will come before you today. Please find them as I know them to be—they are loving and kind. They will be loyal to you all their days.”

Then he rose up and kissed Beelze fully on the mouth. It was a lazy kiss, but it helped Beelze get into the right headspace. They rested their head at the juncture of his neck and shoulder.

“I wish it were you today,” they admitted. “It would be easier.”

Crowley hugged them. “You don’t have to do much. Just lie back and think of… whatever people think of when they’re having sex.”

Beelze laughed. “Ducks?”

“Sure.”

“Right, but I think I’m supposed to be thinking of fucking, while fucking on Béḃinn’s altar,” they said, resigned.

“Think of fucking ducks?” Crowley teased. He gave them another hug. “It’s just sex, Beelze. What is it that Matron always says? ‘Just think of the physicality of it. Enjoy the sensations’,” he mocks, trying for the woman’s stern tones.

Beelze shoved him. “I need to go.”

“Yeah, don’t make Lucifer wait. He’s probably already got a hard-on,” Crowley said, but his voice betrayed his discomfort.

“I’ll see you on the flip side,” they said and moved for the door.

“Beelze,” Crowley interrupted their departure, “you’ll be my older sibling, right? You won’t let him… you know… Lucifer be it, right?”

He seemed so small just then like he was a little boy once more. “Yeah, yeah, of course, I will, you idiot. I’ll remind him in the carriage.”

Crowley’s posture loosened. He smirked. “Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me now, I might not get accepted by the goddess.”

He grinned, “She loves you. She’s been waiting for you forever.”

This was a curious response, “You think? How do you know?”

Crowley frowned and loped toward them. He fidgeted with their robe collar. “She’s blessed us, ya know? You and me. It could have been a lot worse, but I think she likes us. She made it work out for us.”

Below, in the courtyard, Lucifer called for Beelze. Crowley stepped back and gave a low bow.

“Good luck,” he called as they exited. “Think of duck fucking!”

Hastur was on the landing and gave them both a very weird look. It isn’t enough to keep them calm, however. They fidget and wiggle in the carriage. Lucifer ignored them.

The Temple of Béḃinn was not large. Unlike other deities, no one but companions and prostitutes prayed to her. And their offerings were never sacrificial animals. Beelze bows at the doorway to the Temple as Lucifer kissed his fingers and touched his dragon sigil. Next, he brushed his fingers over Béḃinn’s symbol on the doorframe.

Torches burned in the Temple. The room was perfectly square, built around the tall flat altar at its center. The altar was stone, raised like a table to bed height. Lucifer walked to it and knelt before it. Beelze did the same.

A cleric joined them and poured rose water onto the altar table. Other Guild members filtered in and bowed to the altar. They stood all around the altar until Lucifer stood. He disrobed and stepped onto the altar, naked.

“I am Lord Lucifer, Head of the House of Acheron. I present my younger sibling, Beelze for the service of our Lady Béḃinn,” he spoke clearly and his voice echoed in the room.

Beelze stood and slid out of their tithing whites. Guild members looked them over. They bowed to each member, then joined Lucifer on the altar. He was erect. He looked over their body and they wanted to close their eyes.

Beelze heard Crowley in their head, “It’s just sex.”

They laid down on the altar in the puddle and Lucifer took them. Once they had both come, he swiped his fingers through their joined spend and wiped it across their forehead.

“Beelze, sibling of mine, welcome to the service of Béḃinn,” he said and climbed off the altar.

They rolled over onto their knees and waited. The cleric rejoined the group then, carrying a jar.

“Will you take the sigil of our Lady?” he asked.

“I will,” Beelze agreed.And they did. They returned to the House with flies tattooed on their temple. They claimed Crowley as their little brother the same night.

Beelze blinks. They stand in the courtyard of the House of Acheron. They’re dreaming. They turn a slow circle. All around them, the edges of the House are lost. The fog of the dream softens the inconsistencies. They walk forward and open the gate into the street. Only, now they’re entering the Temple of Béḃinn.

They bow and offer their kiss to the goddess, then stride in. A large black and red snake coils on the altar. With the same assurance of any knowledge in a dream, Beelze knows this is Crowley.

“You’re a snake,” they observe.

“Yes,” he hisses and the word stretches out.

“Are you dead?” they ask, hesitantly. They touch their middle with a protective hand.

“No, I think just unconscious,” he hisses, uncertainly.

They stare at him, incredulously. “Unconscious?”

“Michael kidnapped me and then, well, anyway. Yes.”

“What?” Beelze shouts and runs to him. “Are you hurt? Where are you?”

Crowley shifts from side to side like he’s trying to decide what to say. “Aziraphale came for me. Anyway, this is your dream. Why are we here? Planning to fuck me again on the altar?”

“I’m not fucking a snake.”

Crowley lifts his tail and rattles it, “Too kinky for you?”

Beelze carefully considers the questions that Crowley did not answer. “Stop changing the subject. How hurt are you?”

Crowley coils in on himself. “I’m fine, Beelze. Stop fussing.”

“Oh the gods in the heavens, you are dying,” they cry and hurry to him. “Show me. Show me now!”

There’s a flicker. He’s human again, then suddenly back to the snake.

“Damn it, Crowley! Show me!”

He glares at them and his figure shifts. He sits alongside them on the altar with his legs dangling off the side. He’s clad in his initiation whites for some reason, with the hood up. They reach over and push this back. He’s been burned, which is immediately apparent. His hair is scorched short in places and missing in others.

They kneel before him and look at his face. Burn marks mar his face until his eyes are nearly swollen shut. Beelze reaches up and tugs the robe open and off his shoulders.

“Oh, bless Béḃinn,” they whisper in shock. The burns touch every piece of skin on his body. However, deep third-degree burns cover the goddess’s tattoos. They shift and study his temple.

“Your sigil,” they lament. It has been burned away. They cannot see the bone beneath, but it’s a near thing. “What happened?”

“They took me to the Morrigan’s temple. They were unhappy and they burned me,” he says slowly.

Beelze’s hands tremble. They want to take him into their arms and comfort him, but they’re too afraid of hurting him. Finally, they set both hands on the altar at each side of his hips.

“Your cock is burned,” they finally say, but regret it instantly. Crowley blanches.

“Yeah, I can’t catch a break,” he laments. His voice is quiet.

Beelze is up on their feet and running around the Temple. They remember the holy rose water from their initiations. The dream fights back. No matter where they look, no pitcher exists.

“It should be here!” they shout, but the dream warps this into a whisper.

“It’s all right, you know,” Crowley says from the floor beside their feet. He’s a serpent again, long and powerful. He glides across the marble floor and tastes the air with his thin tongue. “I think I’ll probably heal.”

“This isn’t supposed to go like this,” they cry and crumple to the floor. Crowley slithers up into their lap. “We asked for peace and happiness. She was going to give us golden years!” They glare at the altar as if Béḃinn is there.

“I think she’s trying,” Crowley argues. “She couldn’t interfere in that temple. It wasn’t hers.”

“Well, this is hers! Where is she?” Beelze shouts in distress.

“She’s never far from us,” Crowley says with a hiss.

_I am right here, my pets._

Béḃinn stands close to them, but she seems weak. Crowley gasps.

“My Lady,” he whispers and slithers over to her.

Béḃinn steps back away from him.

_No, my little serpent. I will only hurt you. Stay away—I have betrayed you._

“What?” they both shout.

_Morrigan has won. I will diminish and fade away. I have broken my promise to the King and the Prince. I have broken the vows that we have made together, my loves. I will fade and you will be free of my interference._

She laughs but it’s hallow.

“No,” Crowley surges forward and wraps his coils around her legs. “My Lady, you have not lost yet. Aziraphale is in the storm charging at Michael!”

Beelze crawls forward and grabs their Lady’s hands. They kiss her palms.

“How have you broken our vows?” they ask between kisses.

_You swore to me on that altar that you would dance for me. Instead, I have asked you to go to war for me. You have suffered at the words and deeds of the court and my enemies. I have no asked you to dance, but to fight as if I were a true goddess._

“You are,” Crowley argues, inching his way up her hip. He seems to be learning to climb like a snake.

_Morrigan has won._

“Is this because Aziraphale attacked the temples?” Crowley hisses.

Beelze rears back to catch Crowley’s eye. “Attacked the—what? He broke sanctuary!?”

_The Temples were already defiled. They hold no power. Yes, he did what he could for love. But I was a fool. I am no warrior queen and the Morrigan are—I have counseled you to focus on the Eastern Gate, all the while, the Morrigan has taken back Michael’s capital. It has fallen. Azrael’s forces are much stronger than Gabriel’s. All is lost._

“No,” Crowley argues, “Aziraphale will lead his troops further East and—“

_Don’t you understand, you stupid mortal? He will not because you are gravely injured—he will not leave you side. Without his guidance, his generals will retreat, as they have always done._

“Then heal him!” Beelze demands. “Then the Prince can lead his troops—“

_ENOUGH. I say enough!_

Béḃinn flings Crowley off and yanks her hands from Beelze’s grip.

_It is lost. I am already fading. I do not have the powers I did._

Crowley slithers up the altar and shifts. He’s naked and perched on the altar. His burns stand out red.

“Worship will power you, will it not?” he asks.

Béḃinn studies him, then gives a slow nod.

Crowley pats the altar, “C’mon, sibling mine, time to get our rocks off.”

“We’re bound, you idiot,” Beelze growls and holds up their hand that was tied to Gabriel’s. They join him on the altar. “You know we can’t. Plus, you hate sex with me.”

Crowley gives an awkward shrug. “We’ve always had a connection. It’s not so bad—it’s way better with Aziraphale though.”

“We’ll go to our princes then,” Beelze decides, before glancing back at Béḃinn. “We shall worship. We shall dance.”

Béḃinn does not shine as she did. She looks sad.

_How will my little snake do anything with such pain?_

“I’ll figure it out,” Crowley hisses, flickering between snake and human forms.

“We’ll dance for you, my Lady,” Beelze declares. “If that doesn’t work, I’ll meet you here tonight.” Crowley looks down at the altar and back at his sibling.

“Right.”

And Beelze opens their eyes. Their bedroom is darker than usual with the storm shutters in place. Even still, they know this room well. Gabriel is face down on the mattress beside them. He’s kicked the duvet off and pushed his pillow away.

It’s time to get to business. They consider the options presented to them, then straddle his back. They press their hands into the sore muscles there and begin to kneed. In time, Gabriel groans and shifts. They move up his spine.

“Sweetheart?” he asks in a slur.

“Good morning, my prince,” they purr.

He groans when they work on his shoulders. “You’re carrying a lot of stress,” they note.

“War,” he replies succinctly.

“We need to talk about that,” they admit. “Crowley and the goddess just came to me in a dream.”

Gabriel sits up quickly and Beelze nearly tumbles off him. He wiggles around until he’s seated against the headboard with them in his lap.

“What’s wrong?” he asks as he maneuvers to be comfortable.

Beelze considers their words, “Crowley is badly hurt. He was burned by the goddess Morrigan trinity.”

“Bless Béḃinn,” Gabriel whispers. “Is he alive?”

“As far as I can tell, yes. But he was kidnapped and Aziraphale focused on retrieving him—Azrael has taken the capital in the meantime,” they run their hands through his sleep-mussed hair. “Béḃinn worries that this is lost.”

Gabriel sucks in a breath. “What is to be done?”

“Send word to your brother and trust his abilities,” they admit. “And have Crowley brought here so I can care for him.”

Gabriel nods and begins to escape the confines of their bed. Instead, Beelze tightens their knees on his hips and wraps their arms around his neck.

“Sweetheart, I need to get to that—“

“No, you need to see to me,” they whisper, and their voice cracks. “I need you right now.”

Tears are not sexy, but they fill their eyes anyway. Gabriel wraps his arms around them and rocks them slowly.

“Hush, Bee, I’ve got you,” he kisses their throat and rubs his hands down their back.

They catch his mouth with theirs and trade kisses. It’s comforting and sweet. He rocks them onto their back and pulls their camisole over their head. He presses soft, delicate kisses to their sternum and breasts.

“Oh, bless Béḃinn,” they whisper when his fingers dip between their legs.

“Bless Béḃinn, indeed,” Gabriel teases with a husk.

He pushes one of their legs over his shoulder and ducks his head down to lick at their labia. His hands support the small of their back, holding them up at the angle he wants. He laps at them like a kitten with milk until they’re keening out his name.

“You’re feisty this morning,” he teases as he moves one hand to trace their lips lightly. “I like it.”

Then he dips down again and lets his tongue circle their clit. Spikes of pleasure pour through them.

“Oh thank you, Béḃinn for giving me such a tender lover,” they bless and Gabriel hums. “His mouth is a gift.”

Gabriel slides two fingers inside them and curls them just so. Beelze presses their heel into his shoulder and arches off the bed.

“Gab—“ they moan breathily, pausing only to begin to tremble,“—riel!”

Usually, he must lick at them and fuck them for long minutes before they feel the build of their orgasm, but today it’s cresting over them quickly. Beelze feels wetness spread between their tights as it coats Gabriel’s cheeks.

“Get,” they pant, “get up here.”

The King slides up to their body, licking and kissing and nibbling until their skin feels on fire.

“Béḃinn, thank you,” they whisper again as Gabriel kisses their mouth. Their tongues tangled and Beelze rolls them over. “I want you, sire, I want you right now.”

Gabriel spreads out on the rumpled duvet, “I see that. You’re on top, sweetheart, you take the lead.”

Before he can finish teasing, they’re pushing down onto his cock. They tighten to grip him on the way down, then release the muscles as they slide up again. Gabriel chokes on a groan.

“Oh that’s good, Bee, sweetheart,” he moans.

“Yes, thank Béḃinn it is,” they reply before leaning down to kiss him again.

He takes the opportunity to roll them over again into the missionary position. He rolls his hips and thrusts steadily and powerfully, but It’s slower and more conventional lovemaking than they’re used to. Gabriel peppers their faces with kisses and they wrap their legs around his waist. It changes the angle and they’re breathless when he pushes all the way in again.

“Oh Gabriel,” they cry and roll their hips up to meet his thrust.

“My sweet, sweet Bee,” he whispers and kisses them again. Sweat drips down his neck and they roll up to lick it off. He groans and thrusts faster.

“Touch me,” they beg and he slides a hand between them to find their clit. His thumb, like his hands, is large and elegant. He twirls the pad of it across their bundle of nerves until they’re shaking and tossing their head.

“That’s it, yeah, just like that,” he says to them, his voice deep and quiet. He rolls his hips and rubs his thumb at the same speed. They’re relishing the feeling and clawing at his back.

Then he begins to thrust in deeper, shorter, harder pumps. “I’m going to get you there, sweetheart,” he promises, but he’s chasing his release now.

And they feel the buzzing under their skin and give short breathy pants before arching up and pressing their chest to his. They cry out as they come, a little small mew that sparkles with pleasure. Gabriel watches them with lust-filled eyes and an open mouth. Seeing them is the last bit of encouragement he needs—he pulses inside them and gives a guttural sigh.

They fall back into the bed, him soft inside them, and still wrapped in each other. Their legs are stiff from their locked position across his back, but Beelze can’t relax yet.

“That was good,” they pant, breathlessly. “That was really, really good.”

Gabriel kisses them, deep and devoted. “I love you.”

“And I you, my prince,” they reply with a kiss of their own. “I thank Béḃinn for you every moment. I will never stop.”

Gabriel studies them. “You praised her a lot during this.”

Beelze smiles blissfully, “I’m grateful that she put us together. I just wanted her to know.”

He kisses them again, then rolls off them. He stretches and slides off the bed. “I hate to fuck and run, sweetheart,” he begins, but they wave him away.

“Go do Kingly things, my prince,” they say with a smile. “I’m going to lay here and enjoy the afterglow. It’s much too good to rush.”

Gabriel leans against the bedpost at the foot of their bed. “Maybe I’ll just take a piss and be back to take you again,” he says, but there is hunger in his words.

Beelze slides their fingers down between their legs and collects some of his seed that leaks out of them. They roll it between their fingers then rub it over their clit. It’s a dirty and charged move, but it sends immediate heat through their body. They let their eyes fall shut as they tilt their hips and spread their legs. Beelze sighs and circles their fingers, before opening their eyes again. Gabriel watches them with dark, lustful eyes.

“I thought you had work to do?” they ask with a moan. They bite their lip for added effect. “And a chamber pot to visit?”

Gabriel walks around the bed for a better view. “I can hold it,” he admits. “I like watching you touch yourself.”

His cock twitches interestedly.

“Should I wait then, until you’ve,” Beelze flicks their eyes toward the bath. “I can wait. If you want me to.”

Gabriel licks his lips. “I’ll be right back. Don’t move.”

They nearly laugh when he jogs to the en suite.


End file.
